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FROM   THE   LIBRARY  OF 
REV.    LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON,   D.  D. 

BEQUEATHED    BY   HIM   TO 

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PRINCETON  THEOLOGICAL   SEMINARY 


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I 


SACRED    POEMS 

OF  Ti 

XIXth    CENTURY 


THE  CHOICE  BOOKS 


THE    CHOICE    BOOKS 

OUR  VILLAGE 

Mary  Russell  Mitford 

THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD 

Oliver  Goldsmith 

SIR   ROGER   DE   COVERLEY 

Joseph  Addison 

THE  CROWN   OF  WILD  OLIVE 

John  Raskin 

POEMS       OF       RALPH       WALDO 
EMERSON 

SACRED     POEMS    OF    THE    XIX 
CENTURY    Kate  A.  Wright 

DAINTY     POEMS    OF    THE    XIX 
CENTURY    Kate  A.  Wright 

Other  volumes  will  be  announced  later 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

Princeton  Theological  Seminary  Library 


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John  Newman 


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SACRED    POEM&  15  W34 

OF    THEW^ 

NINETEENTH     CENTURY 


Selectedijy 
KATE   A.   WRIGHT 

Compiler  of  "Dainty  Poems  of  the  XIX  Century" 
"Sweet  Notes  from  Many  Voices"  etc. 


NEW    YORK:    DODGE 
PUBLISHING     COMPANY 

220  EAST  TWENTY-THIRD  ST. 


TO  THE   READER 

WHEN  engaged  in  selecting  materials 
for  my  "  Dainty  Poems  of  the  Nine- 
teenth Century,"  which  consists  of 
secular  Poems  only,  I  set  aside  many  which 
expressed  a  sincere  and  elevated  religious 
sentiment  in  language  likely  to  be  acceptable 
to  all  readers,  irrespective  of  sect.  Friends 
urged  me  to  complete  and  publish  a  collection 
of  them,  and  the  marked  success  of  my  book 
referred  to  above  encouraged  me  to  act  on 
their  advice  :  hence  the  present  volume. 

As  in  my  other  collection,  I  could  not  in  this 
volume  have  included  so  many  choice  poems, 
if  I  had  not  been  favoured  by  the  permission 
of  Authors  and  Publishers  to  make  extracts 
from  their  Copyright  works,  and  the  reader 
will  perceive  by  the  beauty  of  these  extracts, 
how  deeply  I  am  indebted  to  them  for  this 
permission,  which  has  given  an  excellence  to 
the  collection,  which  it  otherwise  could  not  have 
had.  The  book  must  be  regarded  as  containing 
only  cabinet  specimens  of  the  writings  of  the 
different  authors,  for  a  fuller  enjoyment  of  which 
I  would  refer  the  reader  to  their  published  works. 
The  following  is  a  list  of  the  Authors  and 
Publishers  who  have  so  kindly  favoured  me  : — 

Sir  Edwin  Arnold  and  Messrs.  Longmans,  Green  &  Co. 
Messrs.    Macmillan   &   Co.,    for  the  late    Mr.    Matthew 
Arnold. 

7 


8  TO  THE  READER 

Mr.  Alfred  Austin. 

Mrs.  \V.  Nicholson  for  the  late  Mr.  Edward  Banks. 

Mr.  Arthur  Christopher  Benson  and  Mr.  John  Lane. 

Rev.  R.  S.  Brooke,  D.D. 

Rev.  R.  \V.  Buckley,  D.D. 

Miss  Jane  Bushby  for  the  late  Mrs.  Anne  S.  Bushbv. 

Messrs.  Macmillan  for  the  late  Mr.  Arthur  Hugh  Clough. 

Mr.  Austin  Dobson. 

Mrs.  Edward  Dowden. 

Professor  Edward  Dowden. 

Messrs.  Blackwood  &  Sons  for  the  late  George  Eliot. 

Miss  Ellen  Thorneycroft  Fowler. 

Mr.  Norman  Gale. 

Mr.  Richard  le  Gallienne. 

Messrs.   James  Nisbet  &  Co.  for  the  late  Miss  Frances 

Ridley  Havergal. 
Mr.  Alfred  Hayes. 

The  late  Dr.  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 
Rev.  John  A.  Jennings. 
Miss  E.  Pauline  Johnson  (Tekahionwake). 
Messrs.  Chatto  &  Windus  for  Dr.  George  MacDonald. 
B.  M. 
Miss    Jane    G.    Matheson     for    the    late    Rev.    George 

Matheson,  D.D. 
Mrs.   Louise  Chandler   Moulton,   also  for  the  late  Mr. 

Philip  Bourke  Marston. 
Mr.  Gilbert  Parker. 
Sir  Noel  Paton. 

Major  A.  W.  Pollock  for  the  late  Rev.  T.  B.  Pollock. 
Rev.  H.  I.  D.  Ryder  and  Messrs.  M.  H.  Gill  &  Son. 
Mr.  Elliot  Stock. 

Mr.  John  Lane  for  the  late  Lord  de  Tabley. 
Mr.  A.  C.  Trench  for  the  late  Archbishop  Trench. 
Mr.  Aubrey  de  Vere. 

Kate  A.  Wright 


SACRED  POEMS  OF 
THE  XlXth  CENTURY 


SARAH    FLOWER   ADAMS 

NEARER,  MY  GOD,    TO   THEE 


N 


EARER,  my  God,  to  Thee, 
Nearer  to  Thee  ! 
E'en  though  it  be  a  cross 
That  raiseth  me  ; 
Still  all  my  song  would  be, 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee, 
Nearer  to  Thee  ! 


Though  like  the  wanderer, 

The  sun  gone  down, 
Darkness  be  over  me, 

My  rest  a  stone  ; 
Yet  in  my  dreams  I'd  be 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee, 

Nearer  to  Thee  ! 

There  let  the  way  appear 

Steps  unto  Heaven  ; 
All  that  Thou  send'st  to  me 

In  mercy  given  ; 
Angels  to  beckon  me 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee, 

Nearer  to  Thee  ! 

Then  with  my  waking  thoughts 
Bright  with  Thy  praise, 
11 


12  SACRED  POEMS 

Out  of  my  stony  griefs 

Bethel  111  raise  ; 
So  by  my  woes  to  be 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee, 

Nearer  to  Thee  ! 

Or  if  on  joyful  wing 
Cleaving  the  sky, 

Sun,  moon,  and  stars  forgot. 
Upwards  I  fly, 

Still  all  my  song  shall  be. 

Nearer,,  my  God,  to  thee, 
Nearer  to  Thee  ! 


SIR  EDWIN  ARNOLD 

EXTRACTS   FROM   "THE   LIGHT    OF 
THE  WORLD" 


i 


T  may  be  this  shall  hap  !    How  should  I 

know  ? 
Yet  do  we  know,  who  loved  and  followed 

Him, 
Never  such   hard  words   fell   from  those  true 

lips, 
Which  would   not  have   the  young  man  call 

Him  good, 
Replying, 4  None  is  good  !    Not  one,  save  God  !  * 
Love's  glory — not   Love's    gore — redeems    the 

Worlds  ! 
The  gateway  of  His  Kingdom  He  did  shut 
On  them  who  named  His  name,  but  let  the 

sick 
Lie  helpless  ;  and  the  naked  go  unclad  ; 
The  fatherless  uncared  for  ;  prisoners 
Unvisited  ;  the  woe-begones  of  earth 
Unsuccoured  ; — vainly  dreaming  to  love  God 
Who  did  not  love  their  brothers  ;  those  who 

held 
Talents,   and   wrapped   them   in   the    napkin  ; 

churls 
Who — pardoned   of  great   debts — took  by  the 

throat 
A  fellow-servant  for  some  little  due, 
And  narrowly  exacted  all  ;  unkind, 

13 


14    SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

Forgetting  the  Forgiven     But  for  Faith 
Which — if   it   could — would   cling  ;    and — if    it 

could — 
Would  comprehend  ;  and,  comprehending  not, 
Stumbled,  yet  loved  and   strove, — to   that   He 

flung 
The  golden  doors  wide  open,  crying  :  *  Come, 
Thrice  blessed  of  my  Father  !  what  ye  did, 
In  that  sweet  secret  doing  of  true  heart, 
Unto  the  least  of  these  My  brethren,  ye 
Have  done  it  unto  Me  ! ' " 

•  *  *  *  * 

"  Wherefore,  if  there  live 
Brothers  too  low  to  love,  too  base  to  serve, 
Too  evil  to  forgive  ;  if  aught  in  Man 
So  abject  seem  and  so  to  brute  allied 
Nice   natures  scorn   the   kinship  ; — think   that 

Christ 
Knew  also  these,   and    measured    these,  and 

made 
His  daily  sojourn  'midst  them  ;  and  was  swift 
To  succour  them  and  cheer  ;   and   bore   with 

them, 
Never  once  holding  any  lowly  soul 
Less  dear  to  Heaven   than   high   and   saintly 

souls, 
Never  conceding  once  that  one  stray  sheep — 
Lean,  foul,  and  fleeceless  in  the  thorns  of  Sin — 
Should  die,  unfolded,  for  the  safe  flock's  sake. 
Thus,  then,  weakly  I  strive  to  answer  thee  : 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY      15 

Jesus  our  Lord  hath  lived  and  died  and  lived  ; 
And,  now, — in  Suns,  and  Stars,  and  amplest 

Heaven, 
When  Angels  name  us  they  must  name  Him, 

too, 
Since  He  was  Man — is  Man.     And  for  His  sake 
No  more  'tis  hard  to  love  what  He  hath  loved, 
Nor  strange  to  tread,  in  footmarks  of  His  feet, 
This    path   which   leads,   by   love   of   Man,   to 

where — 
Through     Earthly     Service     rendered,     duties 

wrought 
In  meekness,  purity,  and  charity — 
Always  our  Helper,  He  awaits.     Awaits 
To  tell  what  best  He  knew — the  secret  deep 
How  the  Divine  hides  in  the  Undivine, 
How  near  to  good  is  evil.     Waits  to  say : 

*  Enter  ye  in,  who  nursed  Me,  lying  sick, 
And  fed  Me,  being  hungered  ;  gave  Me  robes 
When  I  was  naked,  wiped  My  tears  away 

In  heavy-hearted  days,  and  pitied  Me, 

And  helped  Me,  cast  in  prison  with  the  thieves ! 

And,  when  we  answer  :  '  Oh,  dear  Lord !  but, 

how 
Saw  we  Thee  sick,  or  hungered,  or  unclad, 
Or  sad,  or  cast  in  prison  ? '    Christ  shall  say : 

*  Inasmuch  as  ye  did  it  to  the  least 

Of  these  My  brothers,  it  was  done  to  Me  ! 
Aye  !  'twas  to  Me, — and  'twas  to  God  through 
Me— 


16  SACRED  POEMS 

Ye  gave  that  cup  of  water  !     I  lay  sick 
With  him  ye  succoured  ;  I  was  languishing 
In  prison  with  the  broken  hearts  ye  cheered ; 
That  was  My  nakedness  ye  covered  up 
Clothing  My  Poor  ;  I  was  the  babe  ye  fed  ; 
I  was  that  widow  whom  ye  visited  ; 
Share    My  joy   now,   who   helped   My   Father 

then 
Enter  ye  in  ! " 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

PROGRESS 

THE  Master  stood  upon  the  mount,  and 
taught. 
He  saw  a  fire  in  His  disciples'  eyes  ; 
u  The  old  law,"  they  said,  M  is  wholly  come  to 
nought, 

Behold  the  new  world  rise  ! " 

1  Was  it,"  the  Lord  then  said,  "  with  scorn  ye 

saw 
The     olcj     law     observed     by     Scribes    and 

Pharisees  ? 
I  say  unto  you,  see  ye  keep  that  law 
More  faithfully  than  these  ! 

44  Too  hasty  heads  for  ordering  worlds,  alas  ! 
Think  not  that  I  to  annul  the  law  have  will'd ; 
No  jot,  no  tittle  from  the  law  shall  pass, 
Till  all  have  been  fulfiird;' 

So  Christ  said  eighteen  hundred  years  ago. 
But  what  then  shall  be  said  to  those  to-day, 
Who  cry  aloud  to  lay  the  old  world  low 
To  clear  the  new  world's  way? 


1. 


Religious  fervours  !  ardour  misapplied  ! 
Hence,  hence,"  they  cry,  "  ye  do  but  keep  man 
blind  ! 

2  17 


18     SACRED  POEMS  OF    THE 

But  keep  him  self-immersed,  preoccupied, 
And  lame  the  active  mind  ! " 

Ah  !  from  the  old  world  let  someone  answer 

give  : 
"  Scorn  ye  this  world,  their  tears,  their  inward 

cares  ? 
I  say  unto  you,  see  that  your  souls  live 
A  deeper  life  than  theirs  ! 

"  Say  ye  :  '  The  spirit  of  man  has  found  new 

roads, 
And  we  must  leave  the  old  faiths  and  walk 

therein  ? ' — 
Leave  then  the  Cross  as  ye  have  left  carved 

gods, 

But  guard  the  fire  within  ! 

"  Bright  else  and  fast  the  stream  of  life  may 

roll, 
And  no  man  may  the  other's  hurt  behold  ; 
Yet  each  will  have  one  anguish — his  own  soul 
Which  perishes  of  cold." 

Here    let    that   voice   make   end  ;   then,   let   a 

strain, 
From  a  far  lonelier  distance,  like  the  wind 
Be   heard,   floating   through    heaven,    and    fill 

again 

These  men's  profoundest  mind  : 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY      19 

M  Children  of  men  !  the  unseen  Power,  whose 

eye 
For  ever  doth  accompany  mankind, 
Hath  look'd  on  no  religion  scornfully 
That  men  did  ever  find. 

M  Which  has  not  taught  weak  wills  how  much 

they  can  ? 
Which  has  not  fall'n  on  the  dry  heart  like  rain  ? 
Which  has  not  cried  to  sunk,  self-weary  man  : 
Thou  must  be  born  again  I 

"  Children  of  men  !  not  that  your  age  excel 
In  pride  of  life  the  ages  of  your  sires, 
But  that  ye  think  clear,  feel  deep,  bear  fruit  well, 
The  Friend  of  man  desires." 


SELF-DEPENDENCE 

WEARY  of  myself,  and  sick  of  asking 
What  I  am,  and  what  I  ought  to 
be, 
At  this  vessel's  prow  I  stand,  which  bears  me 
Forwards,  forwards,  o'er  the  starlit  sea. 

And  a  iook  of  passionate  desire 

O'er  the  sea  and  to  the  stars  I  send  : 

u  Ye  who  from  my  childhood  up  have  calm'd  me, 

Calm  me,  ah,  compose  me  to  the  end  i 


20     SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

M  Ah,  once  more,"  I  cried,  "  ye  stars,  ye  waters, 
On  my  heart  your  mighty  charm  renew  ; 
Still,  still  let  me,  as  I  gaze  upon  you, 
Feel  my  soul  becoming  vast  like  you  ! " 

From   the   intense,    clear,    star-sown    vault   of 

heaven, 
Over  the  lit  sea's  unquiet  way, 
In  rustling  night-air  came  the  answer  : 
"  Wouldst  thou  be  as  these  are  ?  Live  as  they. 

41  Unaffrighted  by  the  silence  round  them, 
Undistracted  by  the  sights  they  see, 
These  demand  not  that  the  things  without  them 
Yield  them  love,  amusement,  sympathy. 

"  And  with  joy  the  stars  perform  their  shining, 
And  the  sea  its  long  moon-silver' d  roll  ; 
For  self-poised  they  live,  nor  pine  with  noting 
All  the  fever  of  some  differing  soul. 

"  Bounded  by  themselves,  and  unregardful 
In  what  state  God's  other  works  may  be, 
In  their  own  tasks  all  their  powers  pouring, 
These  attain  the  mighty  life  you  see.'' 

O  air-born  voice  !  long  since,  severely  clear, 
A  cry  like  thine  in  mine  own  heart  I  hear  : 
"  Resolve  to  be  thyself  ;  and  know,  that  he 
Who  finds  himself,  loses  his  misery  ! " 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY      21 

STAGIRIUS 

Stagirius  was  a  young-  monk  to  whom  St.  Chrysostom 
addressed  three  books,  and  of  whom  those  books  give  an 
account.  They  will  be  found  in  the  first  volume  of  the 
Benedictine  edition  of  St.  Chrysostom's  works. 

THOU,  who  dost  dwell  alone — 
Thou,  who  dost  know  thine  own — 
Thou,  to  whom  all  are  known 
From  the  cradle  to  the  grave — 

Save,  oh  !  save. 
From  the  world's  temptations, 

From  tribulations, 
From  that  fierce  anguish 
Wherein  we  languish, 
From  that  torpor  deep 
Wherein  we  lie  asleep, 
Heavy  as  death,  cold  as  the  grave 
Save,  oh  !  save. 

When  the  soul,  growing  clearer, 

Sees  God  no  nearer  ; 
When  the  soul,  mounting  higher, 

To  God  comes  no  nigher  ; 
But  the  arch-fiend  Pride 
Mounts  at  her  side, 
Foiling  her  high  emprise, 
Sealing  her  eagle  eyes, 
And,  when  she  fain  would  soar, 
Makes  idols  to  adore. 


22     SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

Changing  the  pure  emotion 
Of  her  high  devotion, 
To  a  skin-deep  sense 
Of  her  own  eloquence  ; 
Strong  to  deceive,  strong  to  enslave— 
Save,  oh  !  save. 

From  the  ingrain'd  fashion 
Of  this  earthly  nature 
That  mars  thy  creature  ; 
From  grief  that  is  but  passion, 
From  mirth  that  is  but  feigning, 
From  tears  that  bring  no  healing, 
From  wild  and  weak  complaining, 
Thine  old  strength  revealing 
Save,  oh  !  save. 
From  doubt,  where  all  is  double  ; 
Where  wise  men  are  not  strong, 
Where  comfort  turns  to  trouble, 
Where  just  men  suffer  wrong  ; 
Where  sorrow  treads  on  joy, 
Where  sweet  things  soonest  cloy, 
Where  faiths  are  built  on  dust, 
Where  love  is  half  mistrust, 
Hungry,  and  barren,  and  sharp  as  the  sea- 
Oh  !  set  us  free. 

O  let  the  false  dream  fly 
Where  our  sick  souls  do  lie 
Tossing  continually  ! 


NLNETEENTH  CENTURY     23 

O  where  thy  voice  doth  come 

Let  all  doubts  be  dumb, 

Let  all  words  be  mild, 

All  strifes  be  reconciled, 

All  pains  beguiled  ! 
Light  bring  no  blindness, 
Love  no  unkindness, 
Knowledge  no  ruin, 
Fear  no  undoing  ! 
From  the  cradle  to  the  grave, 

Save,  oh  !  save. 


EAST  LONDON 

TWAS  August,  and  the  fierce  sun  over- 
head 
Smote     on     the     squalid     streets     of 
Bethnal  Green, 
And   the  pale   weaver,   through   his   windows 

seen 
In  Spitalfields,  look'd  thrice  dispirited. 

I  met  a  preacher  there  I  knew,  and  said  : 
"  111    and    oerwork'd,   how    fare    you    in    this 

scene  ?  n — 
41  Bravely  ! M  said  he  ;  u  for  I  of  late  have  been 
Much    cheer' d   with    thoughts    of    Christ,   the 

living  bread." 


24  SACRED  POEMS 

O  human  soul  !  as  long  as  thou  canst  so 
Set  up  a  mark  of  everlasting  light, 
Above  the  howling  senses'  ebb  and  flow, 

To  cheer  thee,  and  to  right  thee  if  thou  roam — 
Not  with  lost  toil  thou  labourest  through  the 

night  t 
Thou  mak'st  the   heaven   thou  hop'st  indeed 

thy  home. 

IMMORTALITY 

FOIL'D    by    our    fellow-men,   depress'd, 
outworn, 
We  leave  the  brutal  world  to  take  its 
way, 
And,  Patience  !  in  another  life,  we  say, 
The  zvorld  shall  be  thrust  dozvn,  and  xve 
upborne. 

And  will  not,  then,  the  immortal  armies  scorn 
The  world's  poor,  routed  leavings  ?  or  will  they, 
Who  fail'd  under  the  heat  of  this  life's  day, 
Support  the  fervours  of  the  heavenly  morn  ? 

No,  no  !   the  energy  of  life  may  be 
Kept  on  after  the  grave,  but  not  begun  ; 
And  he  who  flagg'd  not  in  the  earthly  strife, 

From  strength  to  strength  advancing — only  he, 
His  soul  well-knit,  and  all  his  battles  won, 
Mounts,  and  that  hardly,  to  eternal  life. 


MRS.  C.  F.  ALEXANDER 

THE  CA  VE  OF  MACHPELAH 

"There  they  buried  Abraham,  and  Sarah  his  wife,  there 
they  buried  Isaac  and  Rebekah  his  wife,  and  there  I  buried 
Leah." — Gen.  xlix.  31. 

CALM  is  it  in  the  dim  cathedral  cloister, 
Where   lie   the   dead   all   couched  in 
marble  rare, 
Where    the   shades    thicken,   and    the    breath 
hangs  moister 
Than  in  the  sunlight  air  : 

Where  the  chance  ray  that  makes  the  carved 
stone  whiter, 

Tints  with  a  crimson,  or  a  violet  light 
Some  pale  old  Bishop  with  his  staff  and  mitre, 

Some  stiff  crusading  knight  ! 

Sweet  is  it  where  the  little  graves  fling  shadows 
In    the   green    churchyard,    on    the    shaven 
grass, 
And     a    faint     cowslip     fragrance     from     the 
meadows 
O'er  the  low  wall  doth  pass  ! 

More  sweet — more  calm   in   that   fair  valleys 
bosom, 
The  burial  place  in  Ephrons  pasture  ground, 

25 


26     SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

Where  the  oil-olive  shed  her  snowy  blossom, 
And  the  red  grape  was  found, 

When    the    great    pastoral    prince    with    love 
undying 
Rose     up     in     anguish    from     the    face     of 
death, 
And  weighed  the  silver  shekels  for  its  buying 
Before  the  sons  of  Heth. 

Here,  when  the  measure  of  his  days  was  num- 
bered 
— Days  few,  and  evil  in  this  vale  of  tears  ! — 
At  Sarah's  side   the  faithful  Patriarch  slum- 
bered, 
An  old  man  full  of  years  : 

Here,  holy  Isaac,  meek  of  heart  and  gentle, 
And  the  fair  maid  who  came  to  him  from 
far, 

And  the  sad  sire  who  knew  all  throes  parental, 
And  meek-eyed  Leah,  are  ; 

She  rests  not  here,    the  beautiful  of  feature, 
For    whom    her    Jacob   wrought   his    years 
twice  o'er, 
And   deemed   them  but  as  one,  for   that    fair 
creature, 
So  dear  the  love  he  bore  ! 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY      27 

Nor  Israel's  son   beloved,1   who  brought   him 
sleeping 
With   a    long    pomp    of    woe    to    Canaan's 
shade, 
Till  all  the  people  wondered  at  the  weeping 
By  the  Egyptians  made. 

Like    roses    from     the    same    tree    gathered 
yearly, 
And  flung  together  in   one  vase  to  keep, — 
Some    but    not    all  who   loved    so  well,  and 
dearly, 
Lie  here  in  quiet  sleep. 

What  though  the  Moslem   mosque  be  in  the 
valley, 
Though    faithless    hands    have    sealed    the 
sacred  cave, 
And    the    red    Prophet's  children   shout  "  El 
Allah," 
Over  the  Hebrew's  grave  : 

Yet  a   day  cometh   when   those  white    walls 
shaking 

Shall  give  again  to  light  the  living  dead, 
And  Abraham,  Isaac,  Jacob,  re-awaking 

Spring  from  their  rocky  bed. 

1  "  And  the  bones  of  Joseph  buried  they  in  Shechem." — 
Joshua  xxiv.  32. 


28     SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

THE  CREATION 

11  Thus   the   Heavens   and   the   earth   were  finished,    and 
all  the  host  of  them." — Gen.  ii.  i. 


Y 


OUNG  heart,  impatient  of  thy  powers, 
Why  wilt  thou  fret  to  know 

That  knowledge  comes  with  weary  hours, 
And  heavy  step,  and  slow? 


That  each  thing  great  in  its  degree 

In  toil  and  care  begins, 
And  no  perfection  here  may  be 

But  that  which  labour  wins? 


Perchance  'twas  writ  to  do  thee  shame. 
That  He  whom  angels  praise 

Paused  o'er  His  fair  creation's  frame, 
And  lingered  six  long  days. 

His  word  at  once  had  hung  them  there. 
Planet,  and  star,  and  sun  ; — 

Perchance  to  teach  thee  patient  care, 
He  made  them  one  by  one. 

Think  how  the  great  world  silent  lay 

A  void  and  formless  place, 
Gods  Spirit  brooding  far  away 

Over  the  water's  face, — 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY      29 

Till  bursting  on  that  darkness  wide 

The  glorious  light  had  birth, 
And  in  her  beauty  and  her  pride, 

He  made  the  fair  young  earth. 

Three  days  she  hung  all  cold  and  still, 

Wrappd  in  that  sunless  light, 
No  golden  lustre  on  the  hill, 

No  silver  moon  at  night. 

God  made  the  sun,  and  in  his  ray 
Sprang  flowers  by  stream  and  meadow, 

On  all  her  heights  the  sunlight  lay, 
And  on  her  sward,  the  shadow. — 

The  graceful  moonbeams  touched  her  sod 

With  slanting  silver  bars, 
"  Shouted  for  joy  the  sons  of  God, 

And  sang  the  morning  stars." 

Slowly  He  wrought,  and  duly  set 

All  things  above,  below  ; — 
Wilt  thou,  His  creature,  chide  and  fret 

If  thine  advance  be  slow  ? 

Patience,  and  zeal,  and  toil  He  asks — 
Then  let  thine  heart  be  strong, 

Nor  weary  of  thy  lowly  tasks, 
Because  the  time  is  long. 


30     SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

RAHAB 

"  By  faith  Rahab  perished  not  with  them  that  believed  not, 
when  she  had  received  the  spies  with  peace." — Heb.  xi.  31. 


R 


ISE  up,  rise  up,  O  Rahab  ; 
And  bind  the  scarlet  thread 
On  the  casement  of  thy  chamber, 
When  the  battle  waxeth  red. 


From  the  double  feast  of  Gilgal, 
From  Jordan's  cloven  wave, 

They  come  with  sound  of  trumpet 
With  banner  and  with  glaive. 

Death  to  the  foes  of  Israel  ! 

But  joy  to  thee,  and  thine, 
To  her  who  saved  the  spies  of  God, 

Who  shows  the  scarlet  line  ! 

Twas  in  the  time  of  harvest, 

When  the  corn  lay  on  the  earth, 

That  first  she  bound  the  signal 
And  bade  the  spies  go  forth. 

For  a  cry  came  to  her  spirit 
From  the  far  Egyptian  coasts, 

And  a  dread  was  in  her  bosom 
Of  the  Mighty  Lord  of  Hosts. 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY      31 

And  the  faith  of  saints  and  martyrs 
Lay  brave  at  her  heart's  core, 

As  some  inward  pulse  were  throbbing 
Of  the  kingly  line  she  bore. 

As  there  comes  a  sudden  fragrance 
In  the  last  long  winter's  day, 

From  the  paly  silken  primrose 
Or  the  violet  by  the  way. 

And  we  pause,  and  look  around  us, 
And  we  feel  through  every  vein 

That  the  tender  spring  is  coming 
And  the  summer's  rosy  reign. 

In  the  twilight  of  our  childhood, 
When  youth's  shadows  lie  before, 

There  come  thoughts  into  our  bosoms 
Like  the  spies  to  Rahab's  door. 

And  we  scarcely  know  their  value, 
Or  their  power  for  good  or  ill, 

But  we  feel  they  are  God's  angels, 
And  they  seek  us  at  His  will. 

And  we  tremble  at  their  presence, 
And  we  blush  to  let  them  forth, 

In  some  word  of  tender  feeling, 
Or  some  deed  of  Christian  worth. 


32  SACRED  POEMS 

Yet  those  guests  perchance  may  witness 

In  that  awful  battle  day, 
When  the  foe  is  on  the  threshold, 

And  the  gates  of  life  give  way  : 

When  the  soul  that  seeks  for  safety. 

Shall  behold  but  one  red  sign — 
But  the  blood-drops  of  Atonement 

On  the  cross  of  Love  Divine  ! 


ALFRED  AUSTIN 

IS  LIFE  WORTH  L1VLXG  ? 

I 


i 


S  life  worth  living  ?    Yes,  so  long 

As  Spring  revives  the  year, 
And  hails  us  with  the  cuckoo's  song, 

To  show  that  she  is  here  ; 
So  long  as  May  of  April  takes, 

In  smiles  and  tears,  farewell, 
And  windflowers  dapple  all  the  brakes, 

And  primoses  the  dell  ; 
While  children  in  the  woodlands  yet 

Adorn  their  little  laps 
With  ladysmock  and  violet, 

And  daisy-chain  their  caps  ; 
While  over  orchard  daffodils 

Cloud-shadows  float  and  fleet, 
And  ouzel  pipes  and  laverock  trills, 

And  young  lambs  buck  and  bleat ; 
So  long  as  that  which  bursts  the  bud 

And  swells  and  tunes  the  rill, 
Makes  springtime  in  the  maidens  blood, 

Life  is  worth  living  still. 


II 

Life's  not  worth  living  !     Come  with  me, 
Now  that,  through  vanishing  veil, 

3  33 


34     SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

Shimmers  the  dew  on  lawn  and  lea, 

And  milk  foams  in  the  pail  ; 
Now  that  June's  sweltering  sunlight  bathes 

With  sweat  the  striplings  lithe, 
As  fall  the  long  straight-scented  swathes 

Oyer  the  crescent  scythe  ; 
Now  that  the  throstle  never  stops 

His  self-sufficing  strain, 
And  woodbine-trails  festoon  the  copse. 

And  eglantine  the  lane  ; 
Now  rustic  labour  seems  as  sweet 

As  leisure,  and  blythe  herds 
Wend  homeward  with  unweary  feet, 

Caroling  like  the  birds  ; 
Now  all,  except  the  lover's  vow, 

And  nightingale,  is  still  ; 
Here,  in  the  twilight  hour,  allow, 

Life  is  worth  living  still. 


Ill 


When  Summer,  lingering  half-forlorn 

On  Autumn  loves  to  lean, 
And  fields  of  slowly  yellowing  corn 

Are  girt  by  woods  still  green  ; 
When  hazel-nuts  wax  brown  and   plump, 

And  apples  rosy-red, 
And  the  owlet  hoots  from  hollow  stump, 

And  the  dormouse  makes  its  bed  ; 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY      35 

When  crammed  are  all  the  granary  floors. 

And  the  Hunters  moon  is  bright, 
And  life  again  is  sweet  indoors, 

And  logs  again  alight  ; 
Aye,  even  when  the  houseless  wind 

Waileth  through  cleft  and  chink, 
And  in  the  twilight  maids  grow  kind, 

And  jugs  are  filled  and  clink  ; 
When  children  clasp  their  hands  and  prayT 

"  Be  done  Thy  heavenly  will  ! n 
Who  doth  not  lift  his  voice  and  say, 

44  Life  is  worth  living  still "  ? 


IV 


Is  life  worth  living?    Yes,  so  long 

As  there  is  wrong  to  right, 
Wail  of  the  weak  against  the  strong, 

Or  tyranny  to  fight ; 
Long  as  there  lingers  gloom  to  chase, 

Or  streaming  tear  to  dry, 
One  kindred  woe,  one  sorrowing  face 

That  smiles  as  we  draw  nigh  ; 
Long  as  at  tale  of  anguish  swells 

The  heart,  and  lids  grow  wet, 
And  at  the  sound  of  Christmas  bells 

We  pardon  and  forget  ; 
So  long  as  Faith  with  Freedom  reigns, 

And  loyal  Hope  survives 


36  SACRED  POEMS 

And  gracious  Charity  remains 

To  leaven  lowly  lives  ; 
While  there  is  one  untrodden  tract 

For  Intellect  or  Will, 
And  men  are  free  to  think  and  act 

Life  is  worth  living  still. 


Not  care  to  live  while  English  homes 

Nestle  in   English  trees, 
And  England's  Trident-Sceptre  roams 

Her  territorial  seas  ! 
Not  live  while  English  songs  are  sung 

Wherever  blows  the  wind, 
And  England's  laws  and  England's  tongue 

Enfranchise  half  mankind  ! 
So  long  as  in  Pacific  main, 

Or  on  Atlantic  strand, 
Our  kin  transmit  the  parent  strain, 

And  love  the  Mother-Land  ; 
So  long  as  in  this  ocean  Realm, 

Victoria  and   her  Line 
Retain  the  heritage  of  the  helm, 

By  loyalty  divine  ; 
So  long  as  flashes  English  steel, 

And   English  trumpets  shrill, 
He  is  dead  already  who  doth  not  feel 

Life  is  worth  living  still. 


EDWARD  BANKS 

ON  A  GRA  VE,  NOT  OF  THIS  CENTURY 

u  Sacred  to  the  memory  of  Oliver  Barwood,  also  of  Joan 
his  Wife." 


T 


HEY  liv'd  in  a  far  generation  ; 

The  stone  hath  a  leaning  of  age — 
A  lichens  matured  incrustation 

Has  clouded  the  chisel-wrought  page. 


You  picture  them  beings  of  quaintness, 
(When  drawn  to  the  transient  theme), 

But,  at  best,  indecision  and  faintness 
Will  cover  the  hues  of  your  dream. 

Ah,  what  of  the  once  eager  musing 
As  Power  was  added  to  Youth — 

The  Purpose  of  Life  interfusing 
Simplicity,  Hope,  and  Truth  ? 

Ah,  what  of  the  Love-dawn's  confession  ? 

That  made  their  young  spirits  as  light, 
Thro'  magnificent  earnest  expression, 

As  thine  in  the  ball-room  to-night  : 

And  left  them  entranc'd  with  emotion, 
Like  delicate  mosses  that  wave 

To  the  passionate  pulse  of  the  ocean, 
Afar  in  a  luminous  cave. 

37 


38     SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

Alas  for  the  wonderful  story, 

If  such  may  go  down  to  the  dust  ! 

That  the  perfected  wealth  of  its  glory 
Is  future,  oh  courage  and  trust  : 

The  chrysalid's  transfiguration 

Is  never  a  meaningless  law, 

For  the  work  of  the  God  of  creation 

Admitteth  not  failure  and  flaw. 

(1876.) 

A   CAROL  FOR  CHRISTMAS  EVE 


D 


RAPED  in  frost,  the  evening  deepens; 

Gather,  gather  round  the  fire  ! 
We  will  touch  the  early  presence 
Of  the  morn,  and  then  retire. 
From  the  massy  ivied  grandeur 
Of  the  grey  cathedral,  swells 
Music  to  the  coming  morrow, 
In  a  peal  of  happy  bells. 
Sacred  hours  !  delay  no  longer, 

Shed  the  blessing  that  ye  bring, 
Breathe  abroad  the  love  that  lightened 
Round  the  cradle  of  the  King. 

Long  ago,  the  herald  beacon 
Glimmer'd  over  Eastern  lands, 

And  a  strange  and  sudden  lustre 
Lighted  up  the  desert  sands  ; 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY      39 

Men  that  moved  amid  the  darkness. 
When  they  caught  the  gleam  afar, 
Read  the  tidings  of  salvation 
In  the  splendour  of  the  star. 
Sacred  hours  !  delay  no  longer, 

Shed  the  blessing  that  ye  bring, 
Breathe  abroad  the  love  that  lighten'd 
Round  the  cradle  of  the  King. 

Faintly  fell  a  golden  whisper 

Thro'  the  stillness  of  the  morn, 
Joyful  words  of  blest  assurance, 

"  Unto  us  a  child  is  born  : " 
And  a  sweet  seraphic  anthem 

From  the  vault  of  heaven  came, 
Voices  of  unnumber'd  angels, 
Hymning  the  Almighty's  name. 
Sacred  hours  !  delay  no  longer, 

Shed  the  blessing  that  ye  bring, 
Breathe  abroad  the  love  that  lighten'd 
Round  the  cradle  of  the  King. 

Time  is  flowing  onward,  onward 

In  a  swift  and  chilly  stream  ; 
Change  effaces  all  we  cherish, 

Earth  is  passing  like  a  dream  ; 
O  the  great  eternal  Christmas  ! 

O  the  rapture  !  when  we  meet, 
Members  of  a  scatter' d  household, 

In  a  circle  all  complete. 


40  SACRED  POEMS 

Sacred  moments  !  cease  to  linger, 
Sad  and  starless  is  the  night, 

Melancholy  mists  enfold  us, 
We  are  longing  for  the  light. 


ARTHUR  CHRISTOPHER 
BENSON 

EVENSONG 


T 


HRUSH,   sing  clear,   for   the  spring    is 

here  : 
Sing,  for  the  summer  is  near,  is  near, 


All  day  long  thou  hast  plied  thy  song, 
Hardly  hid  from  the  hurrying  throng  : 

Now  the  shade  of  the  trees  is  laid 
Down  the  meadow  and  up  the  glade  : 

Now  when  the  air  grows  cool  and  rare 
Birds  of  the  cloister  fall  to  prayer  : 

Here  is  the  bed  of  the  patient  dead, 
Shoulder  by  shoulder,  head  by  head. 

Sweet  bells  swing  in  the  tower,  and  ring 
Men  to  worship  before  their  King. 

See  they  come  as  the  grave  bells  hum, 
Restless  voices  awhile  are  dumb  : 

More  and  more  on  the  sacred  floor 
Feet  that  linger  about  the  door  : 

41 


42     SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

Sweet  sounds  swim  through  the  vaulting  dim, 
Psalm  and  Canticle,  Vesper  hymn. 

That  is  the  way  that  mortals  pray  : 
Which  is  the   sweeter  ?  brown  bird,  say  ! 

Which  were  best  for  me  ?  both  are  blest ; 
Sing  thy  sweetest  and  leave  the  rest. 

ONE  BY  ONE 


o 


NE  by  one,  as  evening  closes, 

Droop   the   flowers  that  drank  the 
sun  ; 
See,  they  sleep,  my  weary  roses, 
One  by  one  : 


Never  did  I  bend  above  you, 

O  my  flowers,  while  all  was  bright  ; 
There  is  time,  I  said,  to  love  you 
Ere  the  night. 

You  were  neither  watched  nor  tended, 
Fevered  thoughts  were  mine  instead, 
Now  the  weary  day  is  ended  ; — 
You  are  dead. 

Now  I  come  in  dumb  disorder, 

Seek  and  search,  in  wild  regret. 
If  one  rose  in  bed  or  border 
Wakens  vet. 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY      43 

Nay,  they  slumber  till  the  morrow  ! 
Hasten  homewards  :  bar  the  gate. 
Through  the  cold  dark  hours  of  sorrow 
I  will  wait. 

WHEN  PUNCTUAL  DAWN 

WHEN  punctual  dawn  came  o'er  the 
hiii, 
In  orange  veiled  and  tender  blue, 
Wan  in  the  dark  field  gleamed  the  rill, 
The  dusky  hedge  was  gemmed  with  dew. 

And  patient  sheep  from  folded  feet 
Rose  one  by  one,  alert  for  food, 
And  one  by  one,  so  small  and  sweet, 
The  flattened  grass-stems  stirred  and  stood. 

And  I  too  rose,  and  stepping  down 
Drank  deep  the  invigorating  air, 
And  scanned  the  little  sleeping  town, 
And  thanked  my  God  that  I  was  there. 


REV.  THOMAS  BINNEY 

ETERNAL  LIGHT 


E 


TERNAL  Light  !  eternal  Light ! 
How  pure  the  soul  must  be, 
When,    placed    within   Thy     searching 
sight, 
It  shrinks  not,  but  with  calm  delight, 
Can  live  and  look  on  Thee  ! 


The  spirits  that  surround  Thy  throne 

May  bear  the  burning  bliss  ; 
But  that  is  surely  theirs  alone, 
Since  they  have  never,  never  known 
A  fallen  world  like  this. 


O  !  how  shall  I,  whose  native  sphere 

Is  dark,  whose  mind  is  dim, 
Before  the  Ineffable  appear, 
And  on  my  naked  spirit  bear 
The  uncreated  beam  ? 


There  is  a  way  for  man  to  rise 

To  that  sublime  abode  : — 
An  offering  and  a  sacrifice, 
A  Holy  Spirit's  energies, 
An  Advocate  with  God  : — 

44 


SACRED  POEMS  45 

These,  these  prepare  us  for  the  sight 

Of  Holiness  above  : 
The  sons  of  ignorance  and  night 
May  dwell  in  the  Eternal  Light 

Through  the  Eternal  Love  ! 


DR.   BONAR 

BE  TRUE 


T 


HOU  must  be  true  thyself, 

If  thou  the  truth  woulclst  teach 
Thy  soul  must  overflow,  if  thou 
Another's  soul  wouldst  reach  ! 
It  needs  the  overflow  of  heart 
To  give  the  lips  full  speech. 

Think  truly,  and  thy  thoughts 
Shall  the  world's  famine  feed  ; 

Speak  truly,  and  each  word  of  thine 
Shall  be  a  fruitful  seed  ; 

Live  truly,  and  thy  life  shall  be 
A  great  and  noble  creed. 


46 


JANE  BORTHWICK 

REST,    WEARY  SOUL 

REST,  weary  soul  ! 
The  penalty  is  borne,  the  ransom  paid 
For  all  thy  sins  full  satisfaction  made; 
Strive    not    to    do    thyself    what    Christ    has 

done, 
Claim   the  free  gift,  and  make  the  joy  thine 

own  ; 
No  more  by  pangs  of  guilt  and  fear  distrest, 
Rest,  sweetly  rest ! 

Rest,  weary  heart, 
From  all  thy  silent  griefs,  and  secret  pain, 
Thy  profitless  regrets,  and  longings  vain  ; 
Wisdom  and  love  have  ordered  all  the  past, 
All  shall  be  blessedness  and  light  at  last ; 
Cast  off  the  cares  that  have  so  long  opprest ; 

Rest,  sweetly  rest ! 

Rest,  weary  head  ! 
Lie  down  to  slumber  in  the  peaceful  tomb  : 
Light    from    above    has    broken    through    its 

gloom  ; 
Here,   in   the   place  where   once  thy   Saviour 

lay, 
Where  He  shall  wake  thee  on  a  future  day 
Like  a  tired  child  upon  its  mother's  breast, 
Rest,  sweetly  rest ! 

47 


48  SACRED  POEMS 

Rest,  spirit  free  ! 
In  the  green  pastures  of  the  heavenly  snore, 
Where  sin  and  sorrow  can  approach  no  more, 
With  all  the  flock  by  the  Good  Shepherd  fed, 
Beside  the  streams  of  Life  eternal  led, 
For  ever  with  thy  God  and  Saviour  blest, 

Rest,  sweetly  rest ! 


ANNE   BRONTE 

IN  MEMORY  OF  A  HAPPY  DAY  IN 
FEBRUARY 


B 


LESSED  be  Thou  for  all  the  joy 
My  soul  has  felt  to-day  ! 
Oh,  let  its  memory  stay  with  me, 
And  never  pass  away  ! 


1  was  alone,  for  those  I  loved 
Were  far  away  from  me  ; 
The  sun  shone  on  the  withered  grass, 
The  wind  blew  fresh  and  free. 

Was  it  the  smile  of  early  spring 
That  made  my  bosom  glow  ? 
Tvvas  sweet  ;  but  neither  sun  nor  wind 
Could  cheer  my  spirit  so. 

Was  it  some  feeling  of  delight 

All  vague  and  undefined  ? 

No  ;  'twas  a  rapture  deep  and  strong, 

Expanding  in  the  mind. 

Was  it  a  sanguine  view  of  life, 

And  all  its  transient  bliss, 

A  hope  of  bright  prosperity  ? 

Oh,  no  !  it  was  not  this. 

4  49 


50     SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

It  was  a  glimpse  of  truth  divine 
Unto  my  spirit  given, 
Illumined  by  a  ray  of  light 
That  shone  direct  from  heaven. 

I  felt  there  was  a  God  on  high, 
By  whom  all  things  were  made  ; 
I  saw  His  wisdom  and  His  power 
In  all  His  works  displayed. 

But  most  throughout  the  moral  world, 
I  saw  His  glory  shine  ; 
I  saw  His  wisdom  infinite, 
His  mercy  all  divine. 

Deep  secrets  of  His  providence, 
In  darkness  long  concealed, 
Unto  the  vision  of  my  soul 
Were  graciously  revealed. 

But  while  I  wondered  and  adored 
His  Majesty  divine, 
I  did  not  tremble  at  His  power  : 
I  felt  that  God  was  mine. 

I  knew  that  my  Redeemer  lived  ; 
I  did  not  fear  to  die  ; 
Full  sure  that  I  should  rise  again 
To  immortality. 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY      51 

I  longed  to  view  that  bliss  divine, 
Which  eye  hath  never  seen  ; 
Like  Moses,  I  would  see  His  face 
Without  the  veil  between. 


THE  NARROW  WAY 


B 


ELI  EVE  not  those  who  say 
The  upward  path  is  smooth, 
Lest    thou    shouldst    stumble    in    the 


way, 
And  faint  before  the  truth. 


It  is  the  only  road 

Unto  the  realms  of  joy  ; 

But  he  who  seeks  that  blest  abode 

Must  all  his  powers  employ. 

Bright  hopes  and  pure  delight 
Upon  his  course  may  beam, 
And  there  amid  the  sternest  heights, 
The  sweetest  flowerets  gleam. 

On  all  her  breezes  borne, 
Earth  yields  no  scents  like  those ; 
But  he  that  dares  not  grasp  the  thorn 
Should  never  crave  the  rose. 


52     SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

Arm — arm  thee  for  the  fight  ! 

Cast  useless  loads  away  ; 

Watch  through  the  darkest  hours  of  night ; 

Toil  through  the  hottest  day. 

Crush  pride  into  the  dust, 
Or  thou  must  needs  be  slack  ; 
And  trample  down  rebellious  lust, 
Or  it  will  hold  thee  back. 

Seek  not  thy  honour  here  ; 

Waive  pleasure  and  renown  ; 

The  world's  dread  scoff  undaunted  bear, 

And  face  its  deadliest  frown. 

To  labour  and  to  love, 

To  pardon  and  endure, 

To  lift  thy  heart  to  God  above, 

And  keep  thy  conscience  pure  ; 

Be  this  thy  constant  aim, 

Thy  hope,  thy  chief  delight  ; 

What  matter  who  should  whisper  blame 

Or  who  should  scorn  or  slight  ? 

What  matter,  if  thy  God  approve, 
And  if,  within  thy  breast, 
Thou  feel  the  comfort  of  His  love, 
The  earnest  of  His  rest? 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY      53 

THE  PES1TEST 


I 


MOURN  with  thee,  and  yet  rejoice 
That  thou  shouldst  sorrow  so  ; 

With  angel  choirs  I  join  my  voice 
To  bless  the  sinner's  woe. 


Though  friends  and  kindred  turn  away, 
And  laugh  thy  grief  to  scorn  ; 

I  hear  the  great  Redeemer  say, 
"  Blessed  are  ye  that  mourn." 

Hold  on  thy  course,  nor  deem  it  strange 
That  earthly  cords  are  riven  : 

Man  may  lament  the  wondrous  change, 
But  M  there  is  joy  in  heaven  ! ' 


CHARLOTTE  BRONTE 

WINTER  STORES 

WE  take  from  life  one  little  share, 
And  say  that  this  shall  be 
A  space,  redeemed  from  toil  and 
care, 
From  tears  and  sadness  free. 

And,  haply,  Death  unstrings  his  bow 
And  Sorrow  stands  apart, 
And,  for  a  little  while,  we  know 
The  sunshine  of  the  heart. 


Existence  seems  a  summer  eve, 
Warm,  soft,  and  full  of  peace, 
Our  free,  unfettered  feelings  give 
The  soul  its  full  release. 

A  moment,  then,  it  takes  the  power 
To  call  up  thoughts  that  throw 
Around  that  charmed  and  hallowed  hour. 
This  life's  divinest  glow. 

But  Time,  though  viewlessly  it  flies, 

And  slowly,  will  not  stay  ; 

Alike,  through  clear  and  clouded  skies, 

It  cleaves  its  silent  way. 

54 


SACRED  POEMS  55 

Alike  the  bitter  cup  of  grief, 
Alike  the  draught  of  bliss, 
Its  progress  leaves  but  moment  brief 
For  baffled  lips  to  kiss. 

The  sparkling  draught  is  dried  away, 
The  hour  of  rest  is  gone, 
And  urgent  voices,  round  us,  say, 
"  Ho,  lingerer,  hasten  on  ! " 

And  has  the  soul,  then,  only  gained, 
From  this  brief  time  of  ease, 
A  moments  rest,  when  overstrained, 
One  hurried  glimpse  of  peace  ? 

No,  while  the  sun  shone  kindly  o'er  us, 
And  flowers  bloomed  around  our  feet, 
While  many  a  bud  of  joy  before  us 
Unclosed  its  petals  sweet, — 

An  unseen  work  within  was  plying  ; 
Like  honey-seeking  bee, 
From  flower  to  flower,  unwearied,  flying, 
Laboured  one  faculty, — 

Thoughtful  for  winter's  future  sorrow, 
Its  gloom  and  scarcity 
Prescient  to-day,  of  want  to-morrow, 
Toiled  quiet  Memory. 


56  SACRED  POEMS 

Tis  she  that  from  each  transient  pleasure 
Extracts  a  lasting  good  ; 
'Tis  she  that  finds,  in  summer,  treasure 
To  serve  for  winter's  food. 

And  when  Youth's  summer  day  is  vanished, 
And  age  brings  winter's  stress, 
Her  stores  with  hoarded  sweets  replenished, 
Life's  evening  hours  will  bless 


THE  LAST  LINES  WRITTEN    BY 
EMILY  BRONTE 

NO  coward  soul  is  mine, 
No    trembler    in    the    world's    storm- 
troubled  sphere  : 
I  see  heaven's  glories  shine, 
And    faith    shines    equal,    arming    me    from 
fear. 

O  God  within  my  breast, 
Almighty,  ever-present  Deity  ! 

Life — that  in  me  has  rest, 
As  I — undying  Life — have  pow  er  in  thee  ! 

Vain  are  the  thousand  creeds 
That  move  men's  hearts  :  unutterably  vain  ; 

Worthless  as  withered  weeds, 
Or  idlest  froth  amid  the  boundless  main, 

To  waken  doubt  in  one 
Holding  so  fast  by  thine  infinity  ; 

So  surely  anchored  on 
The  stedfast  rock  of  immortality. 

With  wide  embracing  love 
Thy  spirit  animates  eternal  years, 

Pervades  and  broods  above, 
Changes,  sustains,  dissolves,  creates  and  rears. 

67 


58  SACRED  POEMS 

Though  earth  and  man  were  gone, 
And  suns  and  universes  cease  to  be, 

And  Thou  were  left  alone, 
Every  existence  would  exist  in  Thee. 

There  is  not  room  for  Death, 
Nor  atom  that  his  might  could  render  void  : 

Thou — Thou  art  Being  and  Breath, 
And  what  Thou  art  may  never  be  destroyed. 


; 


UM 


REV.  R.  S.  BROOKE,  D.D. 

LIGHT  AND  SHADE 

I   WOULD  fain  enjoy  the  sunshine, 
Yet  the  shadow  ever  falls, 
Something  dark  within,  without  me, 
Casts  it  on  my  prison  walls  ; 
Then  I  questioned  with  my  spirit, 
"  Wherefore  is  thy  day  so  dim, 
When  God's  light  is  all  around  thee, 
And  its  source  is  all  in  Him?' 

And  my  spirit  maketh  answer, 

"  Yes  God's  light  is  all  on  earth, 
Like  a  river  brimming  over 

From  the  fountain  of  its  birth  ; 
Spite  of  all  men's  aberrations, 

Scathe  and  sorrow,  shame  and  strife, 
Like  a  sunlit  sea  it  ripples 

Ever  up  the  shores  of  life." 

Then  I  answered  to  my  spirit, 

"  If  God's  light  indeed  be  so, 
Like  a  fountain  in  its  fulness, 

Like""a  sea-tide  in  its  flow  ! 
Then  the  fault  is  mine,  inherent 

In  this  dark  and  heavy  clay, 
Kneaded  up  throughout  my  nature, 

Barring  thus  the  light  of  day  ; 

59 


60     SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

Yet  the  glory,  unattainted, 

Rests  on  all  that  round  us  lies, 
On  the  lily's  silver  chalice, 

On  the  rosebuds  crimson  dyes, 
On  the  green  and  flashing  billow 

Bursting  all  in  balls  of  light, 
On  the  thousand  diamond  dew-drops 

Weeping  for  the  parted  night." 

Then  resumed  my  spirit,  "  Surely 

These  things  have  their  shadows  too, 
Time  will  dim  the  lily's  lustre, 

Turn  to  dust  the  rosebud's  hue  ; 
Underneath  the  bright  green  billow 

Blanch  the  million  bones  of  men  ; 
Come  and  seek  the  dew  at  noon-day 

Will  you  find  its  sparkle  then  ? 

Yet  God's  light  is  still  around  us, 

Shining  on  with  temper'd  ray, 
Through  the  many  mists  and  sorrows 

That  obscure  His  people's  way. 
And,  bethink  you  how  the  Saviour 

Walked  in  shadow  all  His  years — 
Was  He  not  4  with  grief  acquainted '  ? 

Was  He  not  a  4  man  of  tears '  ? ' 

Then  I  answered  to  my  spirit 
"  If  my  Master  wore  the  gloom 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY      61 

Ere  He  won  the  glory,  may  I 

Humbly  then  His  part  assume  ; 
Still  through  light  and  shade  press  onward. 

With  a  soul  serene  and  tender, 
Till  the  golden  bells  of  heaven 

Ring  me  in  to  cloudless  splendour. 


ELIZABETH   BARRETT 
BROWNING 

COMFORT 

SPEAK  low  to  me,  my  Saviour,  low  and 
sweet 
From    out   the   hallelujahs,   sweet   and 
low, 
Lest  I  should  fear  and  fall,  and  miss  Thee  so 
Who  art  not  missed  by  any  that  entreat. 
Speak  to  me  as  to  Mary  at  Thy  feet — 
And  if  no  precious  gums  my  hands  bestow 
Let  my  tears  drop  like  amber,  while  I  go 
In  reach  of  Thy  divinest  voice  complete 
In  humanest  affliction — thus,  in  sooth, 
To  lose  the  sense  of  losing  !     As  a  child, 
Whose  song-bird  seeks  the  wood  for  evermore, 
\%  sung  to  in  its  stead  by  mother's  mouth  ; 
Till,  sinking  on  her  breast,  love-reconciled, 
He  sleeps  the  faster  that  he  wept  before. 


CHEERFULNESS  TAUGHT  BY 
REASON 

I   THINK  we  are  too  ready  with  complaint 
In  this  fair  world  of  God's.     Had  we  no 
hope 
Indeed  beyond  the  zenith  and  the  slope 
Of  yon  grey  blank  of   sky,  we  might  be  faint 


SACRED  POEMS  63 

To  muse  upon  eternity's  constraint 

Round    our    aspirant    souls.      But    since    the 

scope 
Must  widen  early,  is  it  well  to  droop, 
For  a  few  days  consumed  in  loss  and  taint  ? 
O  pusillanimous  Heart,  be  comforted, — 
And,  like  a  cheerful  traveller,  take  the  road, 
Singing  beside  the  hedge.     What  if  the  bread 
Be  bitter  in  thine  inn,  and  thou  unshod 
To    meet    the    flints  ? — At    least    it    may    be 

said, 
"Because    the    wav  is    short,  I    thank    Thee, 

God!" 


DISCONTENT 

LIGHT  human  nature  is  too  lightly  tost 
And  ruffled  without  cause  ;   complain- 
ing on — 
Restless  with  rest — until,  being  overthrown, 
It  learneth  to  lie  quiet.     Let  a  frost 
Or  a  small  wasp  have  crept  to  the  innermost 
Of  our  ripe  peach  ;  or  let  the  wilful  sun 
Shine  westward  of  our  window, — straight  we 

run 
A  furlong's  sigh,  as  if  the  world  were  lost. 
But  what  time  through  the  heart  and  through 

the  brain 
God  hath  transfixed  us, — we,  so  moved  before. 


64     SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

Attain  to  a  calm.     Ay,  shouldering  weights  of 

pain, 
We  anchor  in  deep  waters,  safe  from  shore  ; 
And  hear,  submissive,  o'er  the  stormy  main, 
God's  chartered  judgments  walk  for  evermore. 

THE  SLEEP 

'*  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." — Psalm  cxxvli.  2. 

OF  all  the  thoughts  of  God  that  are 
Born  inward  unto  souls  afar, 
Along  the  Psalmists  music  deep, 
Now  tell  me  if  that  any  is, 
For  gift  or  grace,  surpassing  this — 
"  He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep  w  ? 

What  would  we  give  to  our  beloved? — 
The  hero's  heart,  to  be  unmoved, 
The  poet's  star-tuned  harp,  to  sweep, 
The  patriot's  voice,  to  teach  and  rouse, 
The  monarch' s  crown,  to  light  the  brows. — 
44  He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep." 

What  do  we  give  to  our  beloved  ? — 
A  little  faith,  all  undisproved, 
A  little  dust,  to  overweep, 
And  bitter  memories,  to  make 
The  whole  earth  blasted  for  our  sake. — 
44  He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep." 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY     65 

"  Sleep  soft,  beloved  ! '"  we  sometimes  say, 
But  have  no  tune  to  charm  away 
Sad  dreams  that  through  the  eyelids  creep  : 
But  never  doleful  dream  again 
Shall  break  the  happy  slumber,  when 
**  He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep." 


O  earth,  so  full  of  dreary  noises  ! 
O  men,  with  wailing  in  your  voices  ! 
O  delved  gold,  the  wailers  heap  ! 
O  strife,  O  curse,  that  o'er  it  fall  ! 
God  makes  a  silence  through  you  all, 
And  "giveth  His  beloved,  sleep/' 


His  dews  drop  mutely  on  the  hill, 
His  cloud  above  it  saileth  still, 
Though  on  its  slope  men  sow  and  reap. 
More  softly  than  the  dew  is  shed, 
Or  cloud  is  floated  overhead, 
4  He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep." 


Yea,  men  may  wonder  while  they  scan 
A  living,  thinking,  feeling  man, 
Confirmed,  in  such  a  rest  to  keep  ; 
But  angels  say — and  through  the  word 
I  think  their  happy  smile  is  heard — 
"He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep." 

5 


66  SACRED  POEMS 

For  me,  my  heart  that  erst  did  go 
Most  like  a  tired  child  at  a  show, 
That  sees  through  tears  the  jugglers  leap, — 
Would  now  its  wearied  vision  close, 
Would  childlike  on  His  love  repose, 
Who  "giveth  His  beloved,  sleep/' 

And,  friends,  dear  friends, — when  shall  it  be 
That  this  low  breath  is  gone  from  me, 
And  round  my  bier  ye  come  to  weep, 
Let  one,  most  loving  of  you  all, 
Say,  "  Not  a  tear  must  o'er  her  fall — 
He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep." 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT 

THANATOPS1S 

TO  him  who  in  the  love  of  Nature  holds 
Communion    with    her    visible    forms, 
she  speaks 
A  various  language  ;  for  his  gayer  hours 
She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a  smile 
And  eloquence  of  beauty,  and  she  glides 
Into  his  darker  musings,  with  a  mild 
And  healing  sympathy,  that  steals  away 
Their    sharpness    ere    he    is    aware.      When 

thoughts 
Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a  blight 
Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images 
Of  the  stern  agony,  and  shroud,  and  pall, 
And     breathless    darkness,    and    the    narrow 

house, 
Make    thee    to    shudder,    and    grow    sick    at 

heart ; — 
Go  forth,  under  the  open  sky,  and  list 
To  Nature's  teachings,  while  from  all  around — 
Earth  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths  of  air — 
Comes  a  still  voice  :  Yet  a  few  days  and  thee 
The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 
In  all  his  course  ;  nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground, 
Where    thy   pale   form   was   laid,   with   many 

tears, 

Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  exist 

67 


68     SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

Thy  image.     Earth,  that  nourished  thee,  shall 

claim 
Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again, 
And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 
Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 
To  mix  forever  with  the  elements, 
To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock 
And  to  the  sluggish  clod,  which  the  rude  swain 
Turns   with  his  share,  and  treads  upon.     The 

oak 
Shall  send   his  roots   abroad,  and  pierce   thy 

mould. 

Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting-place 
Shalt  thou  retire  alone, — nor  couldst  thou  wish 
Couch    more     magnificent.     Thou     shalt     lie 

down 
With    patriarchs    of    the    infant    world — with 

kings, 
The  powerful  of  the  earth — the  wise,  the  good, 
Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past, 
All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre.     The  hills 
Rock-ribbed  and  ancient  as  the  sun  ;  the  vales 
Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between  ; 
The  venerable  woods  ;  rivers  that  move 
In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks 
That  make  the  meadows  green  ;  and,  poured 

round  all, 
Old  ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste, — 
Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY      69 

Of  the  great  tomb  of  man.     The  golden  sun, 
The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven, 
Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death, 
Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.     All  that  tread 
The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 
That  slumber  in  its  bosom. — Take  the  wings 
Of  morning,  traverse  Barca's  desert  sands, 
Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 
Where  rolls  the  Oregon,  and  hears  no  sound, 
Save    his    own    dashings — yet    the    dead    are 

there  : 
And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 
The    flight    of  years    began,   have   laid   them 

down 
In  their  last  sleep  ;  the  dead  reign  there  alone. 
So  shalt  thou  rest,  and  what  if  thou  withdraw 
In  silence  from  the  living,  and  no  friend 
Take  note  of  thy  departure  ?     All  that  breathe 
Will  share  thy  destiny.     The  gay  will  laugh 
When  thou  art  gone  ;  the  solemn  brood  of  care 
Plod  on,  and  each  one  as  before  will  chase 
His    favourite   phantom  ;   yet   all   these    shall 

leave 
Their  mirth  and  their  employments,  and  shall 

come, 
And  make  their  bed  with  thee.     As  the  long 

train 
Of  ages  glide  away,  the  sons  of  men, 
The  youth  in  life's  green  spring,  and  he  who 

goes 


70     SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron,  and  maid, 
And    the    sweet    babe,   and   the    gray-headed 

man, — 
Shall  one  by  one  be  gathered  to  thy  side, 
Bv  those  who  in  their  turn  shall  follow  them. 


So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to 

join 
The  innumerable  caravan,  which  moves 
To   that  mysterious   realm,  where   each   shall 

take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 
Thou  go  not,  like  the  quarry-slave  at  night, 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but,  sustained  and 

soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 


»  BLESSED  ARE  THEY 
THAT  MOURN" 


o 


H,  deem  not  they  are  blest  alone 
Whose  lives  a  peaceful  tenor  keep  ; 

The  Power  who  pities  man  has  shown 
A  blessing  for  the  eyes  that  weep. 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY      71 

The  light  of  smiles  shall  fill  again 
The  lids  that  overflow  with  tears  ; 

And  weary  hours  of  woe  and  pain 
Are  promises  of  happier  years. 

There  is  a  day  of  sunny  rest 

For  every  dark  and  troubled  night  ; 

And  grief  may  bide  an  evening  guest, 
But  joy  shall  come  with  early  light. 

And  thou,  who,  o'er  thy  friend's  low  bier, 
Sheddest  the  bitter  drops  of  rain, 

Hope  that  a  brighter,  happier  sphere 
Will  give  him  to  thy  arms  again. 

Nor  let  the  good  man's  trust  depart, 
Though  life  its  common  gifts  deny, 

Though  with  a  pierced  and  bleeding  heart 
And  spurned  of  men,  he  goes  to  die. 

For  God  hath  marked  each  sorrowing  day 
And  numbered  every  secret  tear, 

And  heaven's  long  age  of  bliss  shall  pay 
For  all  His  children  suffer  here. 


REV.  R.  W.  BUCKLEY,  D.D. 

TWILIGHT  SORROW 


W 


HO  may  tell  how  often  sorrow 
Cometh  at  the  close  of  day  ; 
Sorrow  for  the  sinful  record 

Borne  by  passing  time  away  ; 
Sorrow  for  good  resolutions 

Broken  in  the  toil  of  life  ; 
For  the  Christian's  weapons  tarnished, 

Blunted  in  the  daily  strife  ; 
For  the  weakly  heart's  backsliding 

In  the  journey  to  its  bourne  ; 
For  the  dulness  of  the  spirit 

Dwelling  in  its  carnal  urn. 
Yet  this  sorrow  bringeth  comfort, 

When  it  bends  the  contrite  knee 
In  an  act  of  heartfelt  worship, 

In  a  deep  humility. 
Then  it  is  the  blest  forerunner 

Of  a  grace  that  steals  always, 
With  refreshing  to  the  spirit, 

Changing  sighs  to  songs  of  praise. 
Sorrow  such  as  this  be  ever 

Welcome  to  this  heart  of  mine, 
Through  such  tears  a  hopeful  rainbow 

O'er  my  future  path  doth  shine  ; 
Minister  of  heaven's  giving, 

Messenger  to  clear  the  way, 

72 


SACRED  POEMS 

Till  the  love  of  God  descending 

Teaches  all  my  soul  to  pray. 
And,  in  answer,  such  a  measure 

Of  His  strength  divine  comes  down, 
That  my  spirit  more  than  ever 

Strives  to  win  and  wear  the  crown. 
Godly  sorrow,  oft  come  hither 

On  the  stilly  wings  of  eve, 
Such  a  holy  joy  attends  thee 

That  it  is  a  bliss  to  grieve. 


LENT 

LENT  marks  the  Spring  :  It  is  the  Spring 
of  tears, 
That  primal  rain  which  fell  at  Eden's 
gate 
From  our  first  parents1  hearts  disconsolate, 
Now  wept  anew,  for  that  the  Cross  appears 
Down  the  long  vista  of  the  forty  days  ; 
That  while  the  reverent  heart  in  sad  amaze, 
Upon  the  Symbol  that  Faith's  hand  uprears, 

In  lowly  hope,  and  voiceless  love  doth  gaze 
Until  glad  victory  comes  and  clothes  it  round 
with  rays. 

Lent  is  a  wilderness,  a  lonely  place 

To  hide  our  souls  in  from  the  giddy  throng  ; 
We  sit  outside  of  Eden  mourning  long 


74  SACRED  POEMS 

Our  lost  estate,  our  ancient  Fall  from  Grace  ; 
We  sit  and  weep  beside  the  Cross  of  shame 
Alone  and  wear  the  days  out  in  self-blame  : 

But  Jesus  turns  on  us  His  pitying  face. 
We  are  His  sheep.  He  calleth  us  by  name, 

And  comforts  dwell  where  sorrows  erewhile 
went  and  came. 


THOMAS   BURBIDGE 

AT  D1V1SE  DISPOSAL 

OH,  leave  thyself  to  God  !  and  if,  indeed, 
Tis  given  thee  to  perform  so  vast  a 
task, 
Think  not  at  all — think  not,  but  kneel  and  ask. 
O  friend,  by  thought  was  never  creature  freed 
From  any  sin,  from  any  mortal  need  : 
Be  patient !  not  by  thought  canst  thou  devise 
What  course  of  life  for  thee  is  right  and  wise  ; 
It  will  be  written  up,  and  thou  wilt  read. 
Oft  like  a  sudden  pencil  of  rich  light, 
Piercing  the  thickest  umbrage  of  the  wood, 
Will  shoot,  amid  our  troubles  infinite, 
The  spirit's  voice  ;  oft,  like  the  balmy  flood 
Of  morn,  surprise  the  universal  night 
With  glory,  and   make   all   things   sweet   and 
good. 


75 


ANNE  S.    BUSHBY 

CHRIST'S  INVITATION 

"  Come  unto  me,  all  ye  that  labour  and  are  heavy  laden, 
and  I  will  give  you  rest." — Matt.  xi.  25. 

THIS   were    a    world    of    darkness,   sin, 
and  woe, 
But  for  the  mercies  that   from   Jesus 
flow. 
He  hath  taught  us  in  life's  bitterest  hour 
To  trust  alike  His  pity  and  His  pow'r. 
Mighty  to  save,  and  mighty  to  destroy, 
How  shall  we  thank  Him,  that  from  realms  of 

joy, 
Of  unimaginable  glory,  He 
Would  deign  our  earth  to  visit,  to  make  free 
From  Satan's  chains  our  all-degraded  race, 
And  bring  us  promise  of  redeeming  grace  ? 
How    shall    we    thank   our   Saviour   and   our 

Lord? 
By  gratefully  believing  in   His  word  ; 
By  humbly  trusting  in  His  proffer' d  aid, 
Casting   our  cares  on    Him.      Hath    He    not 

said  : 
"  Come  unto  me,  all  ye  that  are  oppressed 
And  heavy  laden,  I  will  give  you  rest M  ? 
Our  Saviour  asks  but  this  :  Come  unto  Him  ; 
Come  unto  Him  with  faith  ;  though  eyes   be 

dim 

76 


SACRED  POEMS  77 

With     lonely     weeping — hearts    be     brokenr 

crush'd 
Beneath  a  load  of  grief — and  cheeks  be  flush'd 
With  shame  at  former  guilt — He  can  release 
Fron   sin's  dark   triumph  ;   He    can    calm  to 

peace 
The  troubled  mind,  and  with  a  holy  light 
Illume  the  tearful  eye.     Shall  mortals  slight 
That  invitation  given  by  heavenly  love  ? 
Shall  they  reject  that  message  from  above  ? 
Let  us  look  to  life  beyond  the  grave, 
And  timely  fly  to  Him  whose  pow'r  alone  cart 

save  ! 


ARTHUR   HUGH   CLOUGH 

4  O   THOU  OF  LITTLE  FAITH" 

IT  may  be  true 
That  while  we  walk  the  troublous  tossing 
sea, 
That    when    we    see    the    oertopping    waves 

advance, 
And  when  we  feel  our  feet  beneath  us  sink, 
There  are  who  walk  beside  us  ;   and  the  cry 
That  rises  so  spontaneous  to  the  lips, 
The  M  Help  us  or  we  perish,"  is  not  nought, 
An  evanescent  spectrum  of  disease. 
It  may  be  that  indeed  and  not  in  fancy, 
A  hand  that  is  not  ours  upstays  our  steps, 
A  voice  that  is  not  ours  commands  the  waves, 
Commands  the  waves    and    whispers   in   our 

ear 
"  O  thou  of  little  faith,  why  didst  thou  doubt  ?  " 
At  any  rate, 

That  there  are  beings  above  us,  I  believe, 
And  when  we  lift  up  holy  hands  of  prayer, 
I  will  not  say  they  will  not  give  us  aid. 


78 


THOMAS  DAVIS 

GOD  IS  LOVE 

WHY   comes   this   fragrance   on   the 
summer  breeze, 
The  blended  tribute  of  ten  thousand 
flowers, 
To  me,  a  frequent  wanderer  'mid  the  trees 

That  form  these  gay,  though  solitary  bowers  ? 
One  answer  is  around,  beneath,  above  ; 
The  echo  of  the  voice,  that  God  is  Love  ! 


Why     bursts     such    melody    from    tree     and 
bush, 
The  overflowing  of  each  songster's  heart, 
So  filling  mine,  that  it  can  scarcely  hush 

Awhile  to  listen,  but  would  take  its  part  ? 
'Tis  but  one  song  I  hear  where'er  I  rove, 
Though  countless  be  the  notes,  that  God  is 
Love  ! 


Why  leaps  the  streamlet  down  the  mountain's 
side, 

Hastening  so  swiftly  to  the  vale  beneath, 
To  cheer  the  shepherd's  thirsty  flock,  or  glide 

Where  the  hot  sun  has  left  a  faded  wreath, 
Or,  rippling,  aid  the  music  of  the  grove? 

Its  own  glad  voice  replies,  that  God  is  Love  ! 

79 


80     SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

In  starry  heavens,  at  the  midnight  hour, 
In  ever-varying  hues  at  morning's  dawn, 

In  the  fair  bow  athwart  the  falling  shower, 
In  forest,  river,  lake,  rock,  hill,  and  lawn, 

One  truth  is  written  :  all  conspire  to  prove, 

What  grace  of  old  reveal'd,  that  God  is  Love! 

Nor  less  this  pulse  of  health,  far  glancing  eye. 
And  heart  so  moved  with  beauty,  perfume, 
song, 

This  spirit,  soaring  through  a  gorgeous  sky, 
Or  diving  ocean's  coral  caves  among, 

Fleeter  than  darting  fish  or  startled  dove  ; 

All,  all  declare  the  same,  that  God  is  Love  ! 

Is  it  a  fallen  world  on  which  I  gaze  ? 

Am  I  as  deeply  fallen  as  the  rest, 
Yet  joys  partaking,  past  my  utmost  praise, 

Instead  of  wandering  forlorn,  unblest  ? 
It  is  as  if  an  unseen  spirit  strove 
To  grave  upon  my  heart,  that  God  is  Love ! 

Yet  wouldst  thou  see,  my  soul,  this  truth 
display'd 

In  characters  which  wondering  angels  read 
And  read,  adoring  ;  go,  imploring  aid 

To  gaze  with  faith,  behold  the  Saviour  bleed! 
Thy  God,  in  human  form  !  O,  what  can  prove. 
If  this  suffice  thee  not  that  God  is  Love? 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY      81 

Cling    to    His    cross ;    and    let    thy    ceaseless 
prayer 

Be,  that  thy  grasp  may  tail  not !  and,  ere  long, 
Thou  shalt  ascend  to  that  fair  Temple,  where 

In  strains  ecstatic  an  innumerous  throng 
Of  saints  and  seraphs,  round  the  Throne  above, 
Proclaim  for  evermore,  that  God  is  Love  ! 


AUSTIN  DOBSON 

BEFORE  SEDAN 

"  The  dead   hand  clasped   a  letter." — Special    Correspon- 
dence. 


H 


ERE  in  this  leafy  place, 

Quiet  he  lies, 
Cold,  with  his  sightless  face 
Turned  to  the  skies  ; 
Tis  but  another  dead  ; 
All  you  can  say  is  said. 

Carry  his  body  hence, — 

Kings  must  have  slaves  ; 

Kings  climb  to  eminence 
Over  men's  graves  : 

So  this  man's  eye  is  dim  ; — 

Throw  the  earth  over  him. 

What  was  the  white  you  touched, 

There,  at  his  side  ? 
Paper  his  hand  had  clutched 

Tight  ere  he  died  ; 
Message  or  wish,  may  be  ; — 
Smooth  the  folds  out  and  see. 


Hardly  the  worst  of  us 

Here  could  have  smiled  ! — 


SACRED  POEMS  83 

Only  the  tremulous 

Words  of  a  child  ; — 
Prattle  that  has  for  stops 
Just  a  few  ruddy  drops. 

Look.     She  is  sad  to  miss, 

Morning  and  night, 
His — her  dead  father's — kiss  ; 

Tries  to  be  bright, 
Good  to  mamma,  and  sweet. 
That  is  all.     M  Marguerite." 

Ah,  if  beside  the  dead 

Slumbered  the  pain  ! 
Ah,  if  the  hearts  that  bled 

Slept  with  the  slain  ! 
If  the  grief  died  ; —     But  no  ; — 
Death  will  not  have  it  so. 


EDWARD  DOWDEN 

COMMUNION 

LORD,  I  have  knelt   and   tried  to   pray 
to-night, 
But  Thy   love   came   upon   me   like   a 
sleep, 
And  all  desire  died  out  ;  upon  the  deep 
Of  Thy  mere  love  I  lay,  each  thought  in  light 
Dissolving  like  the  sunset  clouds,  at  rest 
Each  tremulous  wish,  and  my  strength,  weak- 
ness, sweet 
As  a  sick  boy  with  soon  o'erwearied  feet 
Finds,  yielding  him  unto  his  mother's  breast 
To  weep  for  weakness  there.    I  could  not  pray, 
But  with  closed  eyes  I  felt  Thy  bosom's  love 
Beating  toward  mine,  and  then  I   would  not 

move 
Till  of  itself  the  joy  should  pass  away  ; 
At  last  my  heart  found  voice, — "  Take  me,  O 

Lord, 
And  do  with  me  according  to  Thy  word." 


SEEKING  GOD 

I   SAID,  "  I  will  find  God,"  and  forth  I  went 
To  seek  Him  in  the  clearness  of  the  sky 
But  over  me  stood  unendurably 
Only  a  pitiless,  sapphire  firmament 

b4 


SACRED  POEMS  85 

Ringing    the    world, — blank    splendour  ;    yet 

intent 
Still  to  find  God,  M  I   will  go  seek,^  said  I, 
"  His  way  upon  the  waters,"  and  drew  nigh 
An     ocean    marge    weed-strewn,    and    foam- 
besprent  ; 
And  the  waves  dashed  on  idle  sand  and  stone 
And  very  vacant  was  the  long,  blue  sea  ; 
But  in   the   evening  as  I  sat  alone, 
My  window  open  to  the  vanishing  day, 
Dear  God  !  I  could  not  choose  but  kneel  and 

pray, 
And  it  sufficed  that  I  was  found  of  Thee. 


DR.   DRENNAN 

THE  HEA  VEX  OF  HE  A  VENS  CANNOT 
CONTAIN 


T 


HE  Heaven  of  Heavens  cannot  contain 

The  Universal  Lord  ; 
Yet  He,  in  humble  hearts,  will  deign 

To  dwell,  and  be  adored. 


Where'er  ascends  the  sacrifice 

Of  fervent  praise  and  prayer, 
Or  on  the  earth,  or  in  the  skies, 

The  Heaven  of  God  is  there. 

His  presence  there  is  spread  abroad, 

Through  realms,  through  worlds  unknown  ; 

Who  seeks  the  mercies  of  his  God, 
Is  ever  near  His  throne. 


86 


CHARLES   DYSON 

o  lamp  OF  urn 

OLA  .MP  of  Life  !  that  on  the  bloody  C 
Dost  hang,  the   Beacon  of  our  wan- 
dering ra' 
To  guide  us  homeward  to  our  resting-plac  . 
And  save  our  best  wealth  from   eternal   loss  ! 
purge  my  inward  sight  from  earthly  drott, 
That,  fix'd  upon  Thy  Cross,  or  near  or  far. 
In  all  the  storms  this  weary-  bark  that  tos 
(Whate  er  be  lost  in  that  tempestuous  war.) 
Thee  1   retain,  my  Compass  and  my   Star  ! 
That,  when  arrived  upon  the  wish'd-for  strand, 

I  pass  of  death  th'  irrevocable  bar. 
And  at  the  gate  of  Heaven  trembling  stand, 
The  everlasting  doors  may  open  wide. 
And  give  Thee  to  my  sight.  God  glorified'. 


B7 


GEORGE    ELIOT 

THE  DEATH  OF  MOSES 

MOSES,  who  spake  with  God  as  with 
his  friend, 
And  ruled  his  people  with  the  two- 
fold power 
Of  wisdom  that  can  dare  and  still  be  meek, 
Was  writing  his  last  word,  the  sacred  name 
Unutterable  of  that  Eternal  Will 
Which  was  and  is  and  evermore  shall  be. 
Yet  was  his  task  not  finished,  for  the  flock 
Needed  its  shepherd  and  the  life-taught  sage 
Leaves  no  successor  ;  but  to  chosen  men, 
The  rescuers  and  guides  of  Israel, 
A  death  was  given  called  the  Death  of  Grace, 
Which  freed  them  from  the  burden  of  the  flesh 
But  left  them  rulers  of  the  multitude 
And  loved  companions  of  the  lonely.     This 
Was  God's  last  gift  to  Moses,  this  the  hour 
When  soul  must  part  from  self  and  be  but  soul. 


God  spake  to  Gabriel,  the  messenger 
Of  mildest  death  that  draws  the  parting  life 
Gently,  as  when  a  little  rosy  child 
Lifts  up  its  lips  from  off  the  bowl  of  milk 
And  so  draws  forth  a  curl  that  dipped  its  gold 
In  the  soft  white — Thus  Gabriel  draws  the  soul, 
'  Go  bring  the  soul  of  Moses  unto  me  ! v 

88 


SACRED  POEMS  89 

And  the  awe-stricken  angel  answered,  "  Lord, 
How  shall  I  dare  to  take  his  life  who  lives 
Sole  of  his  kind,  not  to  be  likened  once 
In  all  the  generations  of  the  earth  ? " 

Then    God    called    Michael,    him    of    pensive 

brow, 
Snow-vest  and  flaming  sword,  who  knows  and 

acts  : 
44  Go  bring  the  spirit  of  Moses  unto  Me  ! '1 
But  Michael  with  such  grief  as  angels  feel, 
Loving  the  mortals  whom  they  succour,  pled  : 
44  Almighty,  spare  me  ;  it  was  I  who  taught 
Thy  servant  Moses  ;  he  is  part  of  me 
As  I  of  Thy  deep  secrets,  knowing  them." 

Then  God  called  Zamael,  the  terrible, 
The  angel  of  fierce  death,  of  agony 
That  comes  in  battle  and  in  pestilence 
Remorseless,  sudden  or  with  lingering  throes. 
And  Zamael,  his  raiment  and  broad  wings 
Blood-tinctured,  the  dark  lustre  of  his  eyes 
Shrouding  the  red,  fell  like  the  gathering  night 
Before  the  prophet.     But  that  radiance 
Won  from  the  heavenly  presence  in  the  mount 
Gleamed  on  the  prophet's  brow  and  dazzling 

pierced 
Its  conscious  opposite  :  the  angel  turned 
His  murky  gaze  aloof  and  inly  said  : 
44  An  angel  this,  deathless  to  angel's  stroke." 


90     SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

But  Moses  felt  the  subtly  nearing  dark  : — 
44  Who  art  thou  ?  and  what  wilt  thou  ? '    Zamael 

then  : 
4k  1  am  God's  reaper  ;  through  the  fields  of  life 
I  gather  ripened  and  unripened  souls 
Both  willing  and  unwilling.     And  I  come 
Now  to  reap  thee."     But  Moses  cried, 
Firm  as  a  seer  who  waits  the  trusted  sign  : 
"  Reap  thou  the  fruitless  plant  and  common 

herb — 
Not  him  who  from  the  womb  was  sanctified 
To  teach  the  law  of  purity  and  love.*1 
And  Zamael  baffled  from  his  errand  fled. 

But  Moses,  pausing,  in  the  air  serene 
Heard  now  that  mystic  whisper,  far  yet  near, 
The  all-penetrating  voice,  that  said  to  him, 
"  Moses,  the  hour  is  come  and  thou  must  die." 
"  Lord,  I  obey  ;  but  thou  rememberest 
How  thou,  Ineffable,  didst  take  me  once 
Within  thy  orb  of  light  untouched  by  death." 
Then  the  voice  answered,  "  Be  no  more  afraid  : 
With  me  shall  be  thy  death  and  burial." 
So  Moses  waited,  ready  now  to  die. 

And  the  Lord  came,  invisible  as  a  thought, 
Three  angels  gleaming  on  his  secret  track, 
Prince    Michael,   Zagael,   Gabriel,   charged   to 

guard 
The  soul-forsaken  bodv  as  it  fell 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY      91 

And  bear  it  to  the  hidden  sepulchre 

Denied  for  ever  to  the  search  of  man. 

And  the  Voice  said  to  Moses  :   44  Close   thine 

eyes." 
He  closed  them.     M  Lay  thine  hand  upon  thine 

heart, 
And  draw  thy  feet  together."     He  obeyed. 
And  the  Lord  said,  "O  spirit!  child  of  mine! 
A  hundred  years  and  twenty  thou  hast  dwelt 
Within  this  tabernacle  wrought  of  clay. 
This  is  the  end  :  Come  forth  and  flee  to  heaven." 

But  the  grieved  soul  with  plaintive   pleading 

cried, 
44 1  love  this  body  with  a  clinging  love  : 
The  courage  fails  me,  Lord,  to  part  from  it." 

44  O   child,   come   forth  !   for  thou  shalt   dwell 

with  Me 
About  the  immortal  throne  where  seraphs  joy 
In  growing  vision  and  in  growing  love." 

Yet  hesitating,  fluttering,  like  the  bird 
With  young  wing  weak  and  dubious,  the  soul 
Stayed.    But  behold  !  upon  the  death-dewed  lips 
A  kiss  descended,  pure,  unspeakable — 
The  bodiless  Love  without  embracing  Love 
That  lingered  in  the  body,  drew  it  forth 
With    heavenly    strength    and    carried    it    to 
heaven. 


92     SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

But  now  beneath  the  sky  the  watchers  all, 
Angels  that  keep  the  homes  of  Israel 
Or  on  high  purpose  wander  o'er  the  world 
Leading  the  Gentiles,  felt  a  dark  eclipse  : 
The  greatest  ruler  among  men  was  gone. 
And  from  the  westward  sea  was  heard  a  wail, 
A  dirge  as  from  the  isles  of  Javanim, 
Crying,  "Who  now  is  left  upon  the  earth 
Like   him   to   teach    the   right   and   smite   the 

wrong  i 
And  from  the  East,  far  o'er  the  Syrian  waste, 
Came  slowlier,  sadlier,  the  answering  dirge  : 
"  No  prophet  like  him  lives  or  shall  arise 
In  Israel  or  the  world  for  evermore." 

But  Israel  waited,  looking  toward  the  mount, 
Till  with  the  deepening  eve  the  elders  came 
Saying,  "  His  burial  is  hid  with  God. 
We  stood  far  off  and  saw  the  angels  lift 
His  corpse  aloft  until  they  seemed  a  star 
That  burnt  itself  away  within  the  sky." 

The    people    answered    with    mute   orphaned 

gaze 
Looking  for  what  had  vanished  evermore. 
Then   through   the   gloom   without  them  and 

within 
The  spirit's  shaping  light,  mysterious  speech, 
Invisible    Will    wrought    clear    in    sculptured 

sound, 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY      93 

The  thought-begotten  daughter  of  the  voice, 
Thrilled  on  their  listening  sense  :  "  He  has  no 

tomb. 
He   dwells   not   with   you   dead,   but   lives   as 

Law." 


FREDERICK  WILLIAM   FABER 

MUSIC 

THAT   music   breathes  all   through    my 
spirit 
As  the  breezes  blow  through  a  tree  ; 
And  my  soul  gives  light  as  it  quivers, 
Like  moons  on  a  tremulous  sea. 

New  passions  are  wakened  within  me, 
New  passions  that  have  not  a  name  ; 

Dim  truths  that  I  knew  but  as  phantoms 
Stand  up  clear  and  bright  in  the  flame  : 

And  my  soul  is  possessed  with  yearnings, 
Which  make  my  life  broaden  and  swell  ; 

And  I  hear  strange  things  that  are  soundless, 
And  I  see  the  invisible. 

Oh  silence  that  clarion  in  mercy, — 

For  it  carries  my  soul  away  ; 
And  it  whirls  my  thoughts  out  beyond  me, 

Like  the  leaves  on  an  autumn  day. 

O  exquisite  tyranny  !  silence, — 

My  soul  slips  from  under  my  hand, 

And  as  if  by  instinct  is  fleeing 
To  a  dread  unvisited  land. 

94 


SACRED  POEMS  95 

Is  it  sound,  or  fragrance,  or  vision  ? 

Vocal  light  wavering  down  from  above? 
Past  prayer  and  past  praise  I  am  floating 

Down  the  rapids  of  speechless  love. 

I  strove,  but  the  sweet  sounds  have  conquered: 

Within  me  the  Past  is  awake  ; 
The  Present  is  grandly  transfigured  ; 

The  Future  is  clear  as  day-break. 

Now  Past,  Present,  Future  have  mingled 
A  new  sort  of  Present  to  make  ; 

And  my  life  is  all  disembodied, 

Without  time,  without  space,  without  break. 

But  my  soul  seems  floating  for  ever 

In  an  orb  of  ravishing  sounds, 
Through  faint-falling  echoes  of  heavens, 

'Mid  beautiful  earths  without  bounds. 

Now  sighing,  as  zephyrs  in  summer, 
The  concords  glide  in  like  a  stream, 

With  a  sound  that  is  almost  a  silence, 
Or  the  soundless  sounds  in  a  dream. 

Then  oft,  when  the  music  is  faintest, 
My  soul  has  a  storm  in  its  bowers, 

Like  the  thunder  among  the  mountains, 
Like  the  wind  in  the  abbey  towers. 


96     SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

There  are  sounds,  like  flakes  of  snow  falling 
In  their  silent  and  eddying  rings  ; 

We  tremble, — they  touch  us  so  lightly, 
Like  the  feathers  from  angels'  wings. 

There  are  pauses  of  marvellous  silence, 
That  are  full  of  significant  sound, 

Like  music  echoing  music 

Under  water  or  under  ground. 

That  clarion  again  !  through  what  valleys 

Of  deep  inward  life  did  it  roll, 
Ere  it  blew  that  astonishing  trumpet 

Right  down  in  the  caves  of  my  soul  ? 

My  mind  is  bewildered  with  echoes, — 
Not  all  from  the  sweet  sounds  without ! 

But  spirits  are  answering  spirits 
In  a  beautiful  muffled  shout. 

Oh  cease  then,  wild  horns  !  I  am  fainting  ; 

If  ye  wail  so,  my  heart  will  break  ; 
Someone  speaks  to  me  in  your  speaking 

In  a  language  I  cannot  speak. 

Though  the  sounds  ye  make  are  all  foreign, 
How  native,  how  household  they  are  ; 

The  tones  of  old  homes  mixed  with  heaven. 
The  dead  and  the  angels,  speak  there. 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY      97 

Dear  voices  that  long  have  been  silenced, 
Come  clear  from  their  peaceable  land, 

Come  toned  with  unspeakable  sweetness 
From  the  Presence  in  which  they  stand. 

Or  is  music  the  inarticulate 

Speech  of  the  angels  on  earth  ? 
Or  the  voice  of  the  Undiscovered 

Bringing  great  truths  to  the  birth  ? 

O  music  !  thou  surely  art  worship  ; 

But  thou  art  not  like  praise  or  prayer  ; 
And  words  make  better  thanksgiving 

Than  thy  sweet  melodies  are. 

There  is  in  thee  another  worship, 
An  outflow  of  something  divine  ! 

For  the  voice  of  adoring  silence, 
If  it  could  be  a  voice,  were  thine. 

Thou  art  fugitive  splendours  made  vocal, 
As  they  glanced  from  that  shining  sea 

Where  the  Vision  is  visible  music, 
Making  music  of  spirits  who  see. 

Thou,  Lord  !  art  the  Father  of  music; 

Sweet  sounds  are  a  whisper  from  Thee  ; 
Thou  hast  made  Thy  creation  all  anthems, 

Though  it  singeth  them  silentlv. 

7 


98     SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

But  I  guess  by  the  stir  of  this  music 
What  raptures  in  heaven  can  be. 

Where  the  sound  is  Thy  marvellous  stillness. 
And  the  music  is  light  out  of  Thee. 


COME  TO  JESUS 


s 


OULS  of  men  !  why  will  ye  scatter 
Like  a  crowd  of  frightened  sheep? 
Foolish  hearts  !  why  will  ye  wander 
From  a  love  so  true  and  deep  ? 


Was  there  ever  kindest  shepherd 
Half  so  gentle,  half  so  sweet 

As  the  Saviour  who  would  have  us 
Come  and  gather  round  His  feet  ? 

It  is  God  :  His  love  looks  mighty, 
But  is  mightier  than  it  seems  ! 

'Tis  our  Father  :  and  His  fondness 
Goes  far  out  beyond  our  dreams. 

There's  a  wideness  in  Gods  mercy, 
Like  the  wideness  of  the  sea  : 

There's  a  kindness  in  His  justice, 
Which  is  more  than  libertv. 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY      99 

There  is  no  place  where  earths  sorrows 
Are  more  felt  than  up  in  Heaven  ; 

There  is  no  place  where  earth's  failings 
Have  such  kindly  judgment  given. 

There  is  welcome  for  the  sinner, 
And  more  graces  for  the  good  ; 

There  is  mercy  with  the  Saviour  ; 
There  is  healing  in  His  blood. 

There  is  grace  enough  for  thousands 
Of  new  worlds  as  great  as  this  ; 

There  is  room  for  fresh  creations 
In  that  upper  home  of  bliss. 

For  the  love  of  God  is  broader 

Than  the  measures  of  man's  mind  ; 

And  the  Heart  of  the  Eternal 
Is  most  wonderfully  kind. 

But  we  make  His  love  too  narrow 

By  false  limits  of  our  own  ; 
And  we  magnify  His  strictness 

With  a  zeal  He  will  not  own. 

There  is  plentiful  redemption 

In  the  blood  that  has  been  shed  ; 

There  is  joy  for  all  the  members 
In  the  sorrows  of  the  Head. 


100   SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

"Tis  not  all  we  owe  to  Jesus ; 

It  is  something  more  than  all ; 
Greater  good  because  of  evil, 

Larger  mercy  through  the  fall. 

Pining  souls  !  come  nearer  Jesus, 
And,  oh  come,  not  doubting  thus, 

But  with  faith  that  trusts  more  bravely 
His  vast  tenderness  for  us. 

If  our  love  were  but  more  simple, 
We  should  take  Him  at  His  word  ; 

And  our  lives  would  be  all  sunshine 
In  the  sweetness  of  our  Lord. 


THE  RIGHT  MUST  WIN 


o 


H  it  is  hard  to  work  for  God, 

To  rise  and  take  His  part 
Upon  this  battlefield  of  earth, 
And  not  sometimes  lose  heart ! 


He  hides  Himself  so  wondrously, 
As  though  there  were  no  God  ; 

He  is  least  seen  when  all  the  powers 
Of  ill  are  most  abroad. 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY      101 

Or  He  deserts  us  at  the  hour 

The  fight  is  all  but  lost ; 
And  seems  to  leave  us  to  ourselves 

Just  when  we  need  Him  most. 

Yes,  there  is  less  to  try  our  faith, 

In  our  mysterious  creed, 
Than  in  the  godless  look  of  earth, 

In  these  our  hours  of  need. 

Ill  masters  good  ;  good  seems  to  change 

To  ill  with  greatest  ease  ; 
And,  worst  of  all,  the  good  with  good 

Is  at  cross  purposes. 

It  is  not  so,  but  so  it  looks  ; 

And  we  lose  courage  then  ; 
And  doubts  will  come  if  God  hath  kept 

His  promises  to  men. 

Ah  !  God  is  other  than  we  think  ; 

His  ways  are  far  above, 
Far  beyond  reason's  height,  and  reached 

Only  by  child-like  love. 

The  look,  the  fashion  of  God's  ways 

Love's  lifelong  study  are  ; 
She  can  be  bold,  and  guess,  and  act, 

When  reason  would  not  dare. 


I 


102     SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

She  has  a  prudence  of  her  own  ; 

Her  step  is  firm  and  free  ; 
Yet  there  is  cautious  science  too 

In  her  simplicity. 

Workmen  of  God  !  oh  lose  not  heart, 

But  learn  what  God  is  like  ; 
And  in  the  darkest  battlefield 

Thou  shalt  know  where  to  strike. 

Thrice  blest  is  he  to  whom  is  given 

The  instinct  that  can  tell 
That  God  is  on  the  field  when  He 

Is  most  invisible. 

Blest  too  is  he  who  can  divine 

Where  real  right  doth  lie, 
And  dares  to  take  the  side  that  seems 

Wrong  to  man's  blindfold  eye. 

Then  learn  to  scorn  the  praise  of  men, 
And  learn  to  lose  with  God  ; 

For  Jesus  won  the  world  through  shame, 
And  beckons  thee  His  road. 

God's  glory  is  a  wondrous  thing, 
Most  strange  in  all  its  ways, 

And,  of  all  things  on  earth,  least  like 
What  men  agree  to  praise. 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY     103 

As  He  can  endless  glory  weave 
From  what  men  reckon  shame, 

In  His  own  world  He  is  content 
To  play  a  losing  game. 

Muse  on  His  justice,  downcast  soul  ! 

Muse  and  take  better  heart ; 
Back  with  thine  angel  to  the  field, 

And  bravely  do  thy  part. 

Gods  justice  is  a  bed,  where  we 

Our  anxious  hearts  may  lay, 
And,  weary  with  ourselves,  may  sleep 

Our  discontent  away. 

For  right  is  right,  since  God  is  God  ; 

And  right  the  day  must  win  ; 
To  doubt  would  be  disloyalty, 

To  falter  would  be  sin. 


ELLEN  THORNEYCROFT 
FOWLER 

LOSS  AND  GAIN 

I  SORROWED  that  the  golden  day  was 
dead, 
Its  light  no  more  the  countryside  adorn- 
ing ; 
But  whilst  I  grieved,  behold  ! — the  East  grew 
red 

With  morning. 

I  sighed  that  merry  Spring  was  forced  to  go, 
And    doff    the    wreaths    that    did    so    well 
become  her  ; 
But  whilst   I  murmured  at  her  absence,  lo  ! 
'Twas  Summer. 

I  mourned  because  the  daffodils  were  killed 
By    burning   skies   that  scorched    my   early 
posies  ; 
But  whilst  for  these  I  pined,  mv  hands  were 
filled 

With  roses. 

Half  broken-hearted  I  bewailed  the  end 
Of  friendships   than  which    none  had  once 
seemed  nearer  ; 
But  whilst  I  wept  I  found  a  newer  friend. 
And  dearer. 
104 


SACRED  POEMS  105 

And  thus  I  learned  old  pleasures  are  estranged 
Only  that  something  better  may  be  given  ; 
Until  at  last  we  find  this  earth  exchanged 
For  Heaven. 


MEANS  AXO  ESD 

THE  drops  of  water  which  have  turned 
the  wheel 
Will   ne'er   come   back    to   turn   the 
wheel  again  ; 
The   blossoms  which   have  shed  their   rosy 
rain 
Will    nevermore   the   Spring's   sweet   promise 

seal. 
Yet  still  the  miller  slowly  grinds  to  meal 
His  goodly  stores  of  golden-tinted  grain  ; 
And  still  the  Spring  returns  to  hill  and  plain. 
And  treads  the   dust  to  flowers   beneath   her 

heel. 
Fear  ye  not,  therefore,  lest  the  cause  ye  love 
Should  languish,  when  your  tender  toil-worn 
hands 
Are  crossed  in  peace  beneath  the  daisied 
sod  ! 
The  Means  wax  old  and  perishable  prove — 
The  End  endures  eternally,  and  stands 
Above  the  ages,  face  to  face  with  God. 


106    SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

A    WISH 

WHEN  the  world  to  thee  is  new, 
When  its  dazzling  dreams  deceive 
thee, 
Ere  they  pass  like  morning  dew — 
Faith  retrieve  thee  ! 

When  the  glory  fades  away, 

When  of  light  the  clouds  bereave  thee, 
When  the  shadows  mar  the  day — 
Hope  relieve  thee  ! 

When  despair's  destroying  breath 

Comes  at  eventide  to  grieve  thee 
With  the  bitterness  of  death — 
Love  reprieve  thee  ! 

When  the  bells  at  Curfew  toll, 

When  the  lingering  sunbeams  leave  thee, 
When  the  night  o'erwhelms  thy  soul — 
God  receive  thee  ! 


THE  BRETON  FISHERMEN  S  PR  A  YER 

EAR    Lord,    Thy    sea    is    great — our 
boats  are  small  !" 
So  cry  the  fishers  of  the  Northern 
sea 
When   God's  high  wind  ariseth  stormily, 
Uplifting  them  before  a  sudden  fall. 


D 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY     107 

Thus  in  distress  we  also  oft-times  call 
When   blindly  beaten  to  and  fro  are  we, 
Far  from  the  haven  where  we  fain  would  be, 
While    wind-swept   seas    our    melting    hearts 

appal. 
And  when  for  us  the  waves  thereof  are  still, 
And   we    would    gladly   help    those    storm- 
tossed  souls 
Who  yet  are  struggling  'neath  the  tempest's 
weight  ; 
Feeling  the  frailty  of  all  human  skill, 

We  humbly  whisper  while  the  thunder  rolls, 
"  Dear  Lord,  our  boats  are  small — Thy  sea  is 
great ! " 

STREAM  AND  LAKE 

A  STREAMLET    started,     singing    sea- 
war  d-ho  ! 
But  found  across  the  path  its  fancy 
planned 
A   stone  which    stopped    it   with   the  stern 

command, 
"  Thus  far  and  never  farther  shalt  thou  go." 
Then,   where   the    tiny    stream  was   wont   to 
flow, 
A  shining  lake  appeared  with  silver  strand, 
Refreshing    flower-strewn    fields    on    either 
hand — 
Reflecting  starry  skies  and  sunset  glow. 


108    SACRED  POEMS  OF   THE 

So  oftentimes  we  find  our  progress  stayed 
By  stones  that  bar  the  steps  we  fain  had  trod. 
Whereat    we    murmur   with    a    sense    of 
wrong  ; 
Unmindful  that  by  means  like  this  is  made 
That  sea  of  glass  where  stand  the  saints  of 
God 
To  sing  the  new  and  never-ending  song. 

NO  ROOM 

STRANGELY  the  wondrous  story  doth 
begin 
Of     that    which    came    to    pass     on 
Christmas  Day — 
44  The  new-born  babe  within  a  manger  lay 
Because  there  was  no  room  inside  the  inn/' 
No  room  for  Him  Who  came  to  conquer  sin 
And  bid  distress  and  mourning  flee  away  ! 
So  in  the  stable  He  was  fain  to  stay 
Whilst  revelry  and  riot  reigned  within. 
And  still  the  same  old  tale  is  told  again  : 
The  world   is  full   of    greed   and    gain   and 
glee, 
And    has   no   room    for   God    because   of 
them. 
Lord,  though  my  heart  be  filled  with  joy  or 
pain, 
Grant  that  it  ne'er  may  find   no  room  for 

Thee, 
Like  that  benighted  inn  at   Bethlehem  ! 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY     109 

WVLFRVNAS  HAMPTON 

( Wolverhampton) 

NOW  certain  women  carved  their  names 
in  stone 
That  whosoever  ran  the  same  might 
read. 
Cambridge  was    founded    by    Saint    Ethel- 
drede, 
The  holy  daughter  of  an  Anglian  throne  : 
Saint  Frideswide  it  was  made  Oxford  known 
By  many  a  generous  gift  and  godly  deed  : 
Saint    Hilda    nobly    helped    Northumbrian 
need  : 
When    Whitby's    abbey    to    full    height    had 

grown. 
Wulfruna  likewise  chose  the  better  part ; 
And  in  the  midst  of  this  our  Mercian  plain 
A  stately  minster  to  God's  glory  raised, 
To  prove  thereafter  to  the  thronging  mart 
That  favour  is  deceitful,  beauty  vain, 
But   she    that   fears  her  Maker    shall    be 
praised. 

SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOW 

ONE  sunny  day,  as  on  my  way  I  went, 
And  stooped  to  pluck  the  flowers  I 
loved  so  well, 
I  saw  that  on  each  bloom  o'er  which  I  bent, 
My  shadow  fell  ; 


110     SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

But    when    my   wandering    glances    left    the 
ground 
And    travelled   sunwards   up    the    shafts   of 

light, 

The  shadow  fell  behind  me,  and   I  found 
That  all  was  bright. 

So   when,   with   earthward    gaze,   we   set   our 
minds 
On    flowers  beside  life's  pathway  blooming 
fair, 
Whoever  stoops  to  seize   their  beauties  finds 

A  shadow  there  : 
But  if,  with  eyes  uplifted,  we  are  wont 
To   scan    the   heavenward   stair   the   angels 
trod, 
Behind  us  is  the  shadow,  and  in  front 
The  light  of  God. 


IN  MEMOR1AM 

James  Fraser,  Lord  Bishop  of  Manchester 

SO  he  has  gone   from  us  !   has  gone  for 
ever, 
Far,  far  beyond  the  reach  of  earthly 
fame, 
And  left  behind,  to  be  forgotten  never, 
A  name. 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY     111 

We   mourn   him,   but  he   does   not   heed  our 
sorrow, 
Nor    mark    our    hearts   with   grief    for   him 
opprest, 
For  now  on  him  has  dawned  the  grand   to- 
morrow 

Of  rest. 

That  shining  light  was  his  which  never  paleth. 

But  shineth  on  unto  the  perfect  day  ; 
That  charity  was  his  which  never  faileth 
For  aye. 

Right  bravely  through  the  world  his  way  he 
wended — 
Life's   toils   and   conflicts   now  for   him  are 
past ; 
To  Sion's  Hill  the  victor  has  ascended 
At  last. 

Now  he  has  joined  that  throng  of  every  nation 
And  tribe  and  kindred,  who  have  fought  the 
fight, 
And  walk  with  Christ,  their  Captain  of  Salva- 
tion, 

In  white. 

He  cannot  hear  the  tones  of  weeping  mortals, 

For  he  is  welcomed  by  the  angels'  cry  : 
"  Lift  up  your  heads,  ye  everlasting  portals, 
On  high  ! " 


112     SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

He  cannot  heed  our  bitter  lamentation, 
For — bending   low  before   the   Great   White 
Throne — 
He   hears  the  words   of  gracious  commenda- 
tion, 

44  Well  done  ! " 


PURPLE  AND  GOLD 

THE  golden  corn  and  the  purple  heather 
In  royal  state  did  the  land  enfold  ; 
And  the  children  laughed  in  the  sunny 
weather, 
And  clapped  their  hands  at  the  purple  and 
gold. 

One  short    month   passed,    and  brought  with 
it  the  sadness 
Of  Autumn  winds  and  of  Autumn  rain, 
And     though    still    the    children    laughed    in 
their  gladness, 
They    looked   for    the  purple    and    gold   in 
vain. 

I  wondered  whether  their  hearts  were  tender 
And  sad  that  such  beauty  had  passed  away. 

So    1    asked   them   what   had   become   of   the 
splendour 
That  crowned  the  country  the  other  day. 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY     113 

They  smiled  at  my  ignorance  all  unaided, 
And  told  me  a  secret  I  ought  to  know — 

How  the  purple  and  gold  were   not   lost   nor 
faded, 
But  every  year  were  obliged  to  go  ; 

For  the    purple    and    gold    of   the    Summers 
olden 

Were  used  to  build,  as  the  angels  list, 
A  City  on  high,  where  the  streets  are  golden, 

And  the  walls  are  glowing  with  amethyst. 

As  I  heard  the  children's  quaint  little  story, 
Methought    that    it    brought    a   message   to 
all, 

For  we  all  are  sighing  for  faded  glory, 
And  longing  for  pleasures  beyond  recall. 

But    the    children    should    teach   us  to  cease 
our  sighing, 
And    let    our    lives    with    fresh    hopes    be 
crowned  ; 
There    are    no    such    things    as    losing   and 
dying, 
For    the   dead   are   alive,   and   the   lost  are 
found. 

The  joys  that  we  mourn  in  such  deep  dejec- 
tion 
Were  carried  away  by  an  angel  hand, 

8 


114     SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

To  make  more  fair  in  their  full  perfection 
Our  mansions  prepared  in  the  far-off  land. 

We  shall  find  them  again,  all  those  treasures 
olden — 
Not    one    shall    be    wanting,    not    one    be 
missed — 
In    a    City   on   high,    where    the    streets    are 
golden, 
And  the  walls  are  glowing  with  amethyst. 


"GOLD  AND  FRANKINCENSE  AND 
MYRRH  " 

ONE  Christmas   Day,  in   long-forgotten 
years, 
A  beggar  wept  exceeding  bitter  tears  ; 
For,   whilst   the   thronging   people   went  their 

way 
To   God's  own   house  to  keep  His  holy  day. 
To    deck    with    offerings   meet    the   Saviour's 

shrine, 
And  praise  with  carols  sweet  the  Babe  divine. 
So  poor  was  he,  he  could  not  e'en  afford 
The    humblest    gift    wherewith    to    greet   his 
Lord. 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY      115 

As,  sad  at  heart,  the  weary  beggar  wept, 
It  chanced  he  fell  asleep,  and  whilst  he  slept 
He   dreamed   there    passed    before    his    tear- 
dimmed  eyes 
Three  men  in  strange  and  Oriental  guise, 
Who — guided     by    a     bright     and    wondrous 

star — 
Had  left  their  Eastern  home  and  travelled  far, 
And  still  were  pressing  onwards  night  and  day 
To  reach  the  manger  where  the  Saviour  lay. 

The  first — a  stately  man  of  noble  mien, 
With    wise    and    thoughtful     eye    and    brow 

serene — 
Addressed    the    sleeper    thus :   "  Pure    gold   I 

bring 
To  sacrifice  before  the  new-born  King." 
Then  spake  the  second — who  was  young  and 

fair  : 
4  A  costly  gift  of  frankincense  I  bear, 
Distilled  from  all  the  sweetest  things  on  earth, 
And   therefore    meet    to    grace    a   Monarch's 

birth." 

The  third — a  weary  traveller,  worn  and  old — 
Sighed :    "  I    have    neither    frankincense    nor 

gold  ; 
To  me  life  brings  the  bitter,  not  the  sweet, 
And  poor  indeed  I  go  my  King  to  meet : 


116     SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

1   ne'er  have  found  pure  gold  without  alloy, 
Nor  yet  the  frankincense  of  love  and  joy  ; 
Still  all   I  have  I  give  Him,  and  believe 
That  e'en  my  bitter  myrrh  he  will  receive." 

An    angel's   voice   made    answer :  "  Blest   are 

they 
Who  dedicate  their  gold  to  God,  and  pray 
That  He  thereof  will  fashion  crowns  of  light 
To  wreathe  their  brows  who  well  have  fought 

the  fight. 
Twice   blest   are   they  who   bring  the  costly 

spice 
Of  life's  most  precious  gifts  as  sacrifice  ; 
For  all  such  incense  burnt  before  the  Lord 
One  day  a  thousandfold  shall  be  restored. 


"Thrice   blest  are   they  who — having   nought 

at  all 
To  offer  save  the  wormwood  and  the  gall — 
Lay  down  their  sorrows  'neath  their  Saviour's 

feet ; 
For  He  shall   change  their  bitter  into  sweet, 
His  loving  Hand  shall  wipe  away  their  tears, 
His  gracious   Smile   dispel   their   doubts   and 

fears  ; 
Eternal  joy  shall  turn   their  night  to  day, 
Whilst  grief  and  sighing  swiftly  flee  away." 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY      117 

The  beggar  wept  for  joy  :  "  Ah  !  now  I  learn," 
He  cried,  M  that  even  I   may  come  in  turn 
To  lay  my  gift  before  the  new-born  King, 
Whose  praises  all  the  host  of  Heaven  sing  : 
Some  give  Him  costly  gold,  and  some  prefer 
Sweet   frankincense — I  nought   can  bring  but 

myrrh  ; 
Yet  God  my  offering  will  not  worthless  deem." 
The   beggar  woke — and   lo  !   it  was  a  dream. 


THE  HERM11 

SAFE  in  the  shelter  of  a  lonely  glen — 
A  refuge  which  the  distant  hum  of  men 
Could  reach  but  faintly — 
Untouched  by  human  blame  or  human  praise 
There  dwelt  in  ancient,  half-forgotten  days 
A  hermit  saintly. 


With  rapture  was  his  spirit  wont  to  burn  ; 
Each  night  of  prayer  was  followed  in  its  turn 

By  prayerful  morrows  : 
He  heeded  not,  in  his  exalted  life, 
The  sordid  cares  of  men,  their  paltry  strife, 

Their  sins  and  sorrows. 


118     SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

As  he  one  Christmas-Eve  his  vigil  kept, 
Whilst  Nature  'neath  her  snowy  mantle  slept, 

He  saw  with  wonder 
An  angel  standing  smiling  by  his  side, 
Whilst  Heav'n  to  hosts  seraphic  opened  wide 

Its  gates  of  thunder. 

In  silent  awe  the  hermit  bowed  his  head  : 
44  Fear  not,  my  son,"  the  angel  sweetly  said 

In  accents  ringing  ; 
44  Our    Christmas    carol    strive    to    learn     by 

heart, 
And  see  if  thou  art  fit  to  take  thy  part 

In  Heavens  singing." 

44  Glory  to  God  ! n  bright  hosts  of  seraphs  sang, 
44  Glory  to  God  ! '    the  highest  Heavens  rang, 

44  To  God  be  glory  ! " 
44  Oh,  angel  ! H  cried  the  hermit,  growing  bold, 
44  This  can  I  sing,  for  all  my  life  has  told 

The  self-same  story." 

The  angel  smiled — 44  And  art  thou  then  as  fain 
To  sing  the  second  part  of  Heaven's  strain  ?  H 

In  tones  sonorous 
The  white-robed  carol-singers  chanted   then, 
44  Peace    on    the    earth,    and    good-will    unto 
men  !   — 

So  ran   the  chorus. 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY     119 

In  tearful  shame  the  hermit  bowed  his  head  : 
"  I  cannot  learn  the  angels'  song/'  he  said, 

44  Nor  sing  it  duly  ; 
To  God  great  glory  I  have  ever  given, 
But  yet  to  save  mens  souls  I  have  not  striven, 

Nor  loved  them  truly." 

The   angel  answered  gently,  "  Grieve  not  so  ! 
Two  things  compose  man's  duty  here  below — 

Thou  hast  the  one  done  ; 
In  this  thou  hast  not  been  of  grace  bereft, 
Yet   none   the    less    thou    shouldst    not    then 
have  left 

The  other  undone." 

"  Be  comforted  !  it  is  not  yet  too  late  ; 
Ne'er  closed  to  those  who  knock  is  Heaven's 
gate. 

Now  do  thy  duty — 
Love  well  thy  fellow-creatures,  and    ere  long 
Thine  own    shall  be  the  sweet  seraphic  song 

In  all  its  beauty." 

The  hermit  straightway  left  his  lonely  glen, 
And  lived  and  worked  amongst  his  fellow-men 

Like  holy  leaven  : 
At  last — the  carol  learnt — he  ceased  to  roam, 
And  then  the  angels  bore  him   safely  home 

To  sing  in   Heaven. 


120  SACRED  POEMS 

IMPERFECTIONS 

ONE  day  I  grieved  because  our  greatest 
gain 
Grows  pale  beside  the  smallest  loss 
we  feel ; 
One    hour    of    wrong    can    years    of    right 
repeal ; 
One  faulty  link  can  spoil  the  strongest  chain  ; 
One  little  thorn  can  cause  a  cruel  pain 
That  twice  ten  thousand  roses  cannot  heal  ; 
One  harsh  discordant  note  can  straightway 
steal 
All  harmony  from  e'en  the  sweetest  strain. 
To  these  my  doubts  there   came   an   answer 
sure— 
"  God's  laws  are  right  if  rightly  understood  ! 
Man's  patent  of  perfection  lies  in  this, 
That  nought  imperfect  can  his  soul  endure : 
The  highest  natures  seek  the  highest  good 
Till  they  are  perfect  as  their  Father  is." 


THOMAS   FURLONG 

OH  !  IF  THE  ATHEISTS    WORDS 
WERE  TRUE 

OH  !  if  the  Atheists'  words  were  true, 
If  those  we  seek  to  save 
Sink — and  in  sinking  from  our  view 
Are  lost  beyond  the  grave  ! 
If  life  thus  closed — how  dark  and  drear 
Would  this  bewildered  earth  appear, 

Scarce  worth  the  dust  it  gave, 
A  tract  of  black  sepulchral  gloom, 
One  yawning,  ever-opening  tomb. 

Blest  be  that  strain  of  high  belief, 
More  heaven-like,  more  sublime, 
Which  says,  that  they  who  part  in  grief, 

Part  only  for  a  time  ! 
That  far  beyond  this  speck  of  pain, 
Far  o'er  the  glooming  grave's  domain, 

There  spreads  a  brighter  clime, 
Where  care  and  toil,  and  trouble  o'er, 
Friends  meet,  and,  meeting,  weep  no  more. 


121 


NORMAN   GALE 

BEFORE  SLEEP 

HOW  better,  Father,  could  we  pray 
Than  thus  at  end  of  honest  day, 
Naked  at  heart,  without  pretence, 
Secure  in  simple  excellence, 
A  wife  and  husband,  hand  in  hand, 
At  prayers  among  the  sleeping  band 
Of  angels  whom  Thy  love  hath  lent 
To  bind  our  household  sacrament  ? 

When  better,  Father,  could  we  ask 
Thy  care  than  after  righteous  task, 
The  need  well  met,  the  dream  refused, 
The  oil  not  spilled,  the  clean  lamp  used  ? 
Two  grey-haired  children  kneel  to  Thee, 
In  suit  for  fresh  felicity, 
Whose  married  worship  to  Thine  ear, 
Allowed,  parental,  rises  clear. 

Nor  wealth,  nor  place  as  gifts  Divine 
I  ask  to  fall  on  sons  of  mine  ; 
But  most  of  all,  a  nature  sure 
To  share  the  heart  with  rich  and  poor. 
O  give  them  tears  !  O  make  them  feel 
An  inward  energy  to  heal, 
That  never,  full  of  frosty  pride, 
They  pass  upon  the  other  side. 

122 


SACRED  POEMS  123 

Behold  these  children,  Father,  God, 
Their  strip  of  life  so  briefly  trod  ; 
Their  hearts  unshaded  by  the  gloom, 
Their  eyes  scarce  looking  past  a  bloom. 
To  act  as  ministers  in  these 
Implant  such  holy  qualities 
That  they  may  march  with  love  unspent, 
And  in  Thy  discipline  content. 


DAWN  AND  DARK 


G 


OD  with  His  million  cares 
Went  to  the  left  or  right, 
Leaving  our  world  ;  and  the  day 
Grew  night. 


Back  from  a  sphere  He  came 

Over  a  starry  lawn, 
Looked  at  our  world,  and  the  dark 
Grew  dawn. 


A  PRAYER 


T 


END  me  my  birds,  and  bring  again 
The  brotherhood  of  woodland  life, 
So  shall  I  wear  the  seasons  round, 
A  friend  to  need,  a  foe  to  strife. 


124  SACRED  POEMS 

Keep  me  my  heritage  of  lawn, 
And  grant  me,  Father,  till  I  die 

The  fine  sincerity  of  light 
And  luxury  of  open  sky. 

So,  learning  always,  may  I  find 
My  heaven  around  me  everywhere 

And  go  in  hope  from  this  to  Thee, 
The  pupil  of  Thy  country  air. 


RICHARD  LE  GALLIENNE 

THE  SECOND  CRUCIEIXION 


L 


OUD  mockers  in  the  roaring  street 
Say  Christ  is  crucified  again  : 
Twice  pierced  His  gospel-bringing  feet, 
Twice  broken  His  great  heart  in  vain. 


I  hear,  and  to  myself  I  smile, 

For  Christ  talks  with  me  all  the  while. 

No  angel  now  to  roll  the  stone 
From  off  His  unawaking  sleep, 

In  vain  shall  Mary  watch  alone, 
In  vain  the  soldiers  vigil  keep. 

Yet  while  they  deem  my  Lord  is  dead 
My  eyes  are  on  His  shining  head. 

Ah  !  never  more  shall  Mary  hear 
That  voice  exceeding  sweet  and  low 

Within  the  garden  calling  clear  : 
Her  Lord  is  gone,  and  she  must  go. 

Yet  all  the  while  my  Lord  I  meet 
In  every  London  lane  and  street. 

Poor  Lazarus  shall  wait  in  vain, 
And  Bartimaeus  still  go  blind  ; 
The  healing  hem  shall  ne'er  again 

Be  touched  by  suffering  humankind. 

125 


126  SACRED  POEMS 

Yet  all  the  while  I  see  them  rest, 
The  poor  and  outcast,  in  His  breast. 

No  more  unto  the  stubborn  heart 
With  gentle  knocking  shall  He  plead, 

No  more  the  mystic  pity  start, 

For  Christ  twice  dead  is  dead  indeed. 

So  in  the  street  I  hear  men  say, 
Yet  Christ  is  with  me  all  the  day. 


SIR  ROBERT  GRANT 

WHEN   GATHERING  CLOUDS 

WHEN    gathering    clouds    around    I 
view, 
And  days  are  dark  and  friends  are 
few, 
On  Him  I  lean,  who  not  in  vain 
Experienced  every  human  pain  ; 
He  sees  my  wants,  allays  my  fears, 
And  counts  and  treasures  up  my  tears. 

If  aught  should  tempt  my  soul  to  stray 

From  heavenly  wisdom's  narrow  way  ; 

To  fly  the  good  I  would  pursue, 

Or  do  the  sin  I  would  not  do  ; 

Still  He,  who  felt  temptation's  power, 

Shall  guard  me  in  that  dangerous  hour. 

If  wounded  love  my  bosom  swell, 
Deceived  by  those  I  prized  too  well ; 
He  shall  His  pitying  aid  bestow, 
Who  felt  on  earth  severer  woe  ; 
At  once  betrayed,  denied,  or  fled, 
By  those  who  shared  His  dailv  bread. 


If  vexing  thoughts  within  me  rise, 
And,  sore  dismayed,  my  spirit  dies  ; 

127 


128  SACRED  POEMS 

Still  He,  who  once  vouchsafed  to  bear 
The  sickening  anguish  of  despair, 
Shall  sweetly  soothe,  shall  gently  dry, 
The  throbbing  heart,  the  streaming  eye. 

When  sorrowing  o'er  some  stone  I  bend, 
Which  covers  what  was  once  a  friend, 
And  from  his  voice,  his  hand,  his  smile, 
Divides  me  for  a  little  while  ; 
Thou,  Saviour,  mark'st  the  tears  I  shed, 
For  Thou  didst  weep  o'er  Lazarus  dead  ! 

And  O  !  when  I  have  safely  past 
Through  every  conflict  but  the  last ; 
Still,  still  unchanging,  watch  beside 
My  painful  bed,  for  Thou  hast  died  ! 
Then  point  to  realms  of  cloudless  day, 
And  wipe  the  latest  tear  away  ! 


FRANCIS   RIDLEY   HAVERGAL 

JULY  ON  THE  MOUNTAINS 

THERE  is  sultry  gloom  on  the  mountain 
brow, 
And  a  sultry  glow  beneath. 
Oh  for  a  breeze  from  the  western  sea, 
Soft  and  reviving,  sweet  and  free, 
Over  the  shadowless  hill  and  lea, 
Over  the  barren  heath  ! 

There  are  clouds  and  darkness  around  God's 
ways, 

And  the  noon  of  life  grows  hot ; 
And  though  His  faithfulness  standeth  fast 
As  the  mighty  mountains,  a  shroud  is  cast 
Over  its  glory,  solemn  and  vast, 

Veiling,  but  changing  it  not. 

Send  a  sweet  breeze  from  Thy  sea,  O  Lord, 
From  Thy  deep,  deep  sea  of  love  ; 

Though   it   lift   not   the   veil   from  the  cloudy 
height, 

Let  the  brow  grow  cool  and  the  footsteps  light, 

As  it  comes  with  holy  and  soothing  might, 
Like  the  wing  of  a  snowy  dove. 


129 


ROBERT   STEPHEN    HAWKER 

THE  CHILD  JESUS 
A   Cornish   Carol 

WELCOME  that  star  in  Judah's  sky. 
That  voice  o'er  Bethlehem's  palmy 
glen  : 
The  lamp  far  sages  hailed  on  high, 
The  tones  that  thrilled  the  shepherd  men 
Glory  to  God  in  loftiest  heaven  ! 
Thus  angels  smote  the  echoing  chord  ; 
Glad  tidings  unto  man  forgiven, 
Peace  from  the  presence  of  the  Lord  ! 

The  shepherds  sought  that  birth  divine, 
The  Wise  Men  traced  their  guided  way  ; 
There,  by  strange  light  and  mystic  sign, 
The  God  they  came  to  worship  lay. 
A  human  Babe  in  beauty  smiled, 
Where  lowing  oxen  round  him  trod  : 
A  maiden  clasped  her  Awful  Child, 
Pure  offspring  of  the  breath  of  God. 

Those  voices  from  on  high  are  mute, 
The  star  the  Wise  Men  saw  is  dim  ; 
But  hope  still  guides  the  wanderer's  foot, 
And  faith  renews  the  angel  hymn  : 
Glory  to  God  in  loftiest  heaven  ! 
Touch  with  glad  hand  the  ancient  chord  ; 
Good  tidings  unto  man  forgiven, 

Peace  from  the  presence  of  the  Lord. 

130 


ALFRED   HAYES 

MY  STUDY 

LET  others  strive  for  wealth  or  praise 
Who  care  to  win  ; 
I  count  myself  full  blest,  if  He, 
Who  made  my  study  fair  to  see, 
Grant  me  but  length  of  quiet  days 
To  muse  therein. 

Its  walls,  with  peach  and  cherry  clad, 

From  yonder  wold 
Unbosomed,  seem  as  if  thereon 
September  sunbeams  ever  shone  ; 
They  make  the  air  look  warm  and  glad 

When  winds  are  cold. 

Around  its  door  a  clematis 

Her  arms  doth  tie  ; 
Through  leafy  lattices  I  view 
Its  endless  corridors  of  blue 
Curtained  with  clouds  ;  its  ceiling  is 

The  marbled  sky. 

A  verdant  carpet  smoothly  laid 

Doth  oft  invite 

My  silent  steps  ;  thereon  the  sun 

With  silver  thread  of  dew  hath  spun 

Devices  rare — the  warp  of  shade, 

The  weft  of  light. 
131 


132     SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

Here  dwell  my  chosen  books,  whose  leaves 

With  healing  breath 
The  ache  of  discontent  assuage, 
And  speak  from  each  illumined  page 
The  patience  that  my  soul  reprieves 

From  inward  death  ; 

Some  perish  with  a  season's  wind, 

And  some  endure  ; 
One  robes  itself  in  snow,  and  one 
In  raiment  of  the  rising  sun 
Bordered  with  gold  ; — in  all  I  find 

God's  signature. 

As  on  my  grassy  couch  I  lie, 

From  hedge  and  tree 
Musicians  pipe  ;  or  if  the  heat 
Subdue  the  birds,  one  crooneth  sweet 
Whose  labour  is  a  lullaby, — 

The  slumbrous  bee. 

The  sun  my  work  doth  overlook 

With  searching  light ; 
The  serious  moon,  the  flickering  star, 
My  midnight  lamp  and  candle  are  ; 
A  soul  unhardened  is  the  book 

Wherein  I  write. 

There  labouring,  my  heart  is  eased 
Of  every  care  ; 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY     133 

Yet  often  wonderstruck  I  stand, 
With  earnest  gaze  but  idle  hand, 
Abashed — for  God  Himself  is  pleased 
To  labour  there. 

Ashamed  my  faultful  task  to  spell, 

I  watch  how  grows 
The  Master's  perfect  colour-scheme 
Of  sunset,  or  His  simpler  dream 
Of  moonlight,  or  that  miracle 

We  name  a  rose. 

There,  in  the  lap  of  pure  content, 

I  still  would  keep 
The  Sabbath  of  a  soul  at  rest  ; 
Nor  could  I  wish  a  close  more  blest 
Than  there,  when  life's  bright  day  is  spent, 

To  fall  asleep. 

OS  THE  MOUNTAIN 

I  SCALE  the  fortress  where  the  winds  keep 
ward 
O'er  health's  unrifled  hoard  ; 
Each  footstep  is  an  ecstasy  ;  my  blood 

Leaps  with  the  sparkling  flood 
Of  sunshine  from  God's  crystal  chalice  poured. 
Ascending  I  behold 
Earth's  ancient  scroll  unfold  ; 
The  mountain's  naked  shoulder  screens  from 
view 


134    SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

The  valley  of  last  night's  expectant  rest, 
Whose  hamlet,  as  the  prospect  grew. 

Shrank  to  a  wood-wren's  nest. 
Panting  ruth  joyful  toil  at  last  I  stand 

Where  taintless  breezes  range, 
An  infant  holding  Nature  by  the  hand, 
A  new-born  creature,  to  myself  most  strange  ; 

Exalted  to  this  sovereign  height 
I  taste  awhile  an  eagles  lone  delight ; 
Then,  as  I  scan 
The  Makers  outspread  plan, 
My  humbled  spirit  kneels 
And  uncomplaining  feels 
The  insignificance  of  Man. 
Around  me  slumber  giant  limbs  ;  below 
The  vapours  crawl  that  curtain  me  from  care  ; 
A  stream  unseen  is  heard  to  flow  ; 
The  breast  of  peace  lies  bare  ; 
Reposing  there, 
I  gaze  along  the  avenues  of  air 
To  that  which  seems  a  sea  beyond  the  sea, 
The  dim  horizon  of  eternity. 


CHRISTMAS  CAROL 


T 


WO  thousand  troubled  years 
Time's  weary  brow  have  worn. 

Since  that  strange  star  to  shepherds  told 
The  Prince  of  Peace  was  born  ; 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY      135 

Two  thousand  years  of  gloom, 

Of  groping  toward  the  light, 
Of  prophets  scorned  and  martyrs  slain 

And  battle  done  for  right. 

But  year  by  year  the  bells 

The  old  glad  tidings  bring, 
And  men  forget  their  strife,  to  keep 

The  birthday  of  the  King. 

Christ's  kingdom  yet  will  come 

And  good  prevail  o'er  ill, 
Though  often  with  a  crown  of  thorns 

We  mock  the  Master  still  ; 

Yet  He  will  not  forsake 
The  world  for  which  He  died, 

Till  all  mankind  be  gathered  home 
At  the  great  Christmastide. 


THE  SILENT  HARP 

POOR  harp  how  desolate  ! — The  loving 
hand 
That  wind-like  wandered  o'er  thy  trem- 
ulous strings, 
Culling  sweet  sheaves  of  sound  or  whisper- 
ings 
Aeolian,  at  the  Master's  mute  command 


136     SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

Drops  lifeless.     In  that  unresponsive  land 
What  music  He  from  earthly  sufferings 
Evoketh  and  the  stress  of  mortal  things, 
Wistful  we  seek  but  may  not  understand. 

Yonder  may  dwell  continual  peace,  but  here 
All  peace  begetteth  and  is  born  of  strife, 
And  every  smile  is  sister  to  a  tear  ; 

Death  only  can  the  missing  note  supply 
That  shall  resolve  the  discord  of  this  life  ; 
Silence  alone  is  perfect  harmony. 


T 


THE  LAST  CRUSADE 

Extract  from  " The  Burial  of  Saint  Louis" 

"  rnr^HANKS  be  to  God  ! 

And  praised  be  the  Father  of  all  life  ! 

Who  hideth  not  the  radiance  of  His 
face 

E'en  from  His  meanest  creature,  but  doth  shed 

His   bounteous   warmth    alike   on    weed   and 

flower, 

His  bounteous  love  alike  on  wretch  and  king. 

Thine  is  the  first  grey  glimmer  that  foretells 

The  fresh  dominion  of  ascending  Day, 

Ere  yet  the  birds  have  thrust  with  dewy  wing 

The  beaded  twigs  aside,  and  shyly  chirped 

The  half-remembered  music  of  their  dreams; 

Thine  the  first  frail  anemone  that  lifts 

A  starry  head  above  the  mouldering  leaves, 

To  tell  the  naked  underwood  of  Spring  ; 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY      137 

Thine  the  first  sunbeam  on  the  latest  snow  ; 
Thine  the  first  laughter  of  the  new-born  babe  ; 
And  Thine,  dear  God,  the  earliest  ray  of  hope 
That  gilds  the  night  and  winter  of  despair. 
Blest  be  the  silent-growing  power  of  Day, 
Blest  be  the  slowly-widening  dawn  of  Truth, 
Blest  be  the  ever-conquering  might  of  Good, 
And  blest  the  surely-coming  reign  of  Love." 


EXTRACT  FROM  "  THE  STORMING 
OF  NAZARETH" 

ONWARD  through  the  shade 
For  half  a  league  they  marched,  and 
not  a  sound 
Vexed  earth's  deep  slumber,  save  the  measured 

tread 
Of  their  own  steps,  or  rustle  of  the  leaves 
When  some  bright  bird  broke  from  his  dewy 

bower, 
And  down  the  valley  with  a  startled  cry 
Flew  to  a  deeper  shelter.     But  the  walls 
Of  riven  limestone  glimmering  to  the  stars 
Grew  ever  wider  parted,  till  they  made 
A  sloping  circle,  like  the  storm-worn  wreck 
Of  some  great  amphitheatre  ;  and  midway 
Adown  the  slope,  and  nestling  to  the  plain, 
Asleep  beneath  the  breathing  moonlight,  lay 
The  village-home  of  Christ. 


438  SACRED  POEMS 

O  ye,  who  deem 
The  din  of  cities  better  than  the  hush 
Of  the  bare  hills,  the  pomp  of  painted  roofs 
More  glorious  than  the  starry  vault  of  Heaven, 
The  strife  of  factions  sweeter  than  the  song 
Of  woodland  birds,  the  raiment  of  a  king 
More  lovely  than  the  lily,  and  the  roar 
Of  nations  greater  than  the  still  small  voice  ; 
Ponder  it  well,  or  e'er  your  ears  grow  deaf 
To  God's  deep  music,  that  earth's  strongest 

soul, 
Who  best  hath  known  to  cope  with  pain,  and 

grief, 
And  shame,  and  sin,  Who  best  hath  held  His 

way 
Unflinching  through  the  tempest  of  the  world, 
Most  nobly  wrestled  with  the  powers  of  Hell, 
And  looked  most  calmly  in  the  face  of  Death, 
Drew  His  vast  might,  not  from  the  turbid  flow 
Of  crowded  streets,  but  those  pure  influences 
Which  spring  from  star  and  bird  and  wayside 

flower. 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

THE  CHAMBERED  NAUTILUS 

THIS  is  the  ship  of  pearl,  which,  poets 
feign, 
Sails  the  unshadowed  main, — 
The  venturous  bark  that  flings 
On  the  sweet  summer  wind  its  purpled  wings 
In  gulfs  enchanted,  where  the  Siren  sings, 
And  coral  reefs  lie  bare, 
Where   the   cold   sea-maids   rise   to  sun  their 
streaming  hair. 

Its  webs  of  living  gauze  no  more  unfurl  ; 
Wrecked  is  the  ship  of  pearl  ! 
And  every  chambered  cell, 
Where  its  dim   dreaming   life  was  wont  to 

dwell, 
As  the  frail  tenant  shaped  his  growing  shell, 
Before  thee  lies  revealed, — 
Its  irised  ceiling  rent,  its  sunless  crypt  unsealed! 

Year  after  year  behold  the  silent  toil 
That  spread  his  lustrous  coil  ; 
Still,  as  the  spiral  grew, 
He  left  the  past  years  dwelling  for  the  new, 
Stole    with    soft    step    its    shining    archway 
through, 
Built  up  its  idle  door, 
Stretched  in  his  last  found  home,  and  knew 
the  old  no  more. 

139 


140     SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

Thanks   for   the   heavenly  message   brought 
by  thee, 
Child  of  the  wandering  sea, 
Cast  from  her  lap,  forlorn  ! 
From  thy  dead  lips  a  clearer  note  is  born 
Than  ever  Triton  blew  from  wreathed  horn  ! 
While  on  mine  ear  it  rings, 
Through   the   deep  cave  of  thought   I   hear  a 
voice  that  sings  : — 

Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,  O  my  soul, 
As  the  swift  seasons  roll ! 
Leave  thy  low- vaulted  past  ! 
Let  each  new  temple,  nobler  than  the  last, 
Shut  thee  from  heaven  with  a  dome  more 
vast, 
Till  thou  at  length  art  free, 
Leaving  thine  outgrown  shell  by  life's  unresting 
sea  ! 

HYMN 

OUR  Father  !  while  our  hearts  unlearn 
The  creeds  that  wrong  Thy  name, 
Still  let  our  hallowed  altars  burn 
With  Faith's  undying  flame  ! 

Not  by  the  lightning-gleams  of  wrath 
Our  souls  Thy  face  shall  see, 

The  star  of  Love  must  light  the  path 
That  leads  to  Heaven  and  Thee. 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY      141 

Help  us  to  read  our  Master's  will 
Through  every  darkening  stain 

That  clouds  His  sacred  image  still, 
And  see  Him  once  again. 

The  brother  man,  the  pitying  friend, 

Who  weeps  for  human  woes, 
Whose  pleading  words  of  pardon  blend 

With  cries  of  raging  foes. 

If  'mid  the  gathering  storms  of  doubt, 
Our  hearts  grow  faint  and  cold, 

The  strength  we  cannot  live  without 
Thy  love  will  not  withhold. 

Our  prayers  accept  ;  our  sins  forgive  ; 

Our  youthful  zeal  renew  ; 
Shapes  for  us  holier  lives  to  live, 

And  nobler  work  to  do  ! 


LEIGH   HUNT 

ABOU  BEiV  AD  HEM 

ABOU  BEN  ADHEM  (may  his  tribe  in- 
crease !) 
Awoke  one  night  from  a  deep  dream 

of  peace, 
And  saw,  within  the  moonlight  in  his  room, 
.Making  it  rich,  and  like  the  lily  in  bloom, 
An  angel  writing  in  a  book  of  gold  ; 
Exceeding     peace     had     made    Ben    Adhem 

bold, 
And  to  the  presence  in  the  room  he  said, 
**  What   writest  thou  ?  " — The  vision    raised  its 

head, 
And  with  a  look  made  of  all  sweet  accord, 
Answered,   "The    names   of    those    who   love 

the  Lord." 
u  And  is  mine   one  ? "  said   Abou  ;  "  Nay,  not 

so, 
Replied  the  angel.     Abou  spoke  more  low, 
But  cheerily  still  ;  and  said,  "  I  pray  thee  then, 
Write  me  as  one  that  loves  his  fellow-men. w 

The  angel    wrote    and    vanished.      The    next 

night 
It  came  again  with  a  great  wakening  light. 
And   showed   the   names   whom   love   of  God 

had  blessed, 
And  lo  !  Ben  AdhenVs  name  led  all  the  rest. 

142 


REV.  JOHN  A.  JENNINGS 

REST 


W 


ANDERING  thro'  the  city 
My  heart  was  sick  and  sore  : 

Full  of  a  feverish  longing 

I  entered  an  old  church  door. 


Dark  were  the  aisles  and  gloomy  : 
Type  of  my  troubled  breast. 

Mournful  and  sad  I  paced  there, 
Eager  to  be  at  rest. 

Sudden  the  sunshine  lighted 
The  arches  with  golden  stream, 

Chasing  the  darksome  shadows 
With  brightly-glancing  beam. 

A  chord  pealed  forth  from  the  organ 
Tender,  and  soft,  and  sweet  : 

Trembling  along  the  pavement 
Like  the  tread  of  the  angels'  feet. 

The  light  as  a  voice  from  Heaven, 
Bid  all  my  care  to  cease  ; 

The  chord,  as  a  song  of  Seraphs, 
Whispered  of  Gods  own  peace. 


143 


E.   PAULINE  JOHNSON 

(TEKAHIONWAKE) 
CHR1STMAST1DE 

I  MAY  not  go  to-night  to  Bethlehem, 
Nor  follow  star-directed  ways,  nor  tread 
The  paths  wherein  the  shepherds  walked, 
that  led 
To  Christ,  and  peace,  and  Gods  good  will  to 
men. 

I  may  not  hear  the  Herald  Angels'  song 
Peal  through  the  oriental  skies,  nor  see 
The  wonder  of  that  Heavenly  company 
Announce  the  King  the  world  had  waited  long. 

The  manger  throne  I  may  not  kneel  before, 
Or  see  how  man  to  God  is  reconciled, 
Through  pure  St  Mary's  purer,  holier  child  : 
The  human  Christ  these  eyes  may  not  adore. 

I  may  not  carry  frankincense  and  myrrh 
With  adoration  to  the  Holy  One  ; 
Nor  gold  have  I  to  give  the  Perfect  Son, 
To  be  with  those  wise  kings  a  worshipper. 

Not  mine  the  joy  that  Heaven  sent  to  them, 
For  ages  since   Time   swung   and   locked   his 

gates, 
But  1  may  kneel  without — the  star  still  waits. 
To  guide  me  on  to  holy  Bethlehem. 

144 


SACRED  POEMS  145 

BRIER 

Good  Friday 

BECAUSE,    dear    Christ,    your    tender, 
wounded  arm 
Bends    back    the    brier    that     edges 
life's  long  way, 
That  no  hurt  conies  to  heart,  to  soul  no  harm, 
I  do  not  feel  the  thorns  so  much  to-day. 

Because  I  never  knew  your  care  to  tire, 
Your  hand  to  weary  guiding  me  aright, 

Because  you  walk  before  and  crush  the  brier, 
It  does  not  pierce  my  feet  so  much  to-night. 

Because  so  often  you  have  hearkened  to 
My  selfish  prayers,  I  ask  but  one  thing  now, 

That  these  harsh  hands  of  mine  add  not  unto 
The   crown   of   thorns  upon   your  bleeding 
brow. 


PESSEROSO 

SOULLESS  is  all  humanity  to  me 
To-night.     My  keenest  longing  is  to  be 
Alone,  alone  with  God's  grey  earth  that 
seems 
Pulse  of  my  pulse  and  consort  of  my  dreams. 

10 


146  SACRED  POEMS 

To-night  my  soul  desires  no  fellowship, 

Or  fellow-being  ;  crave  I  but  to  slip 

Thro'  space  on  space,  till  flesh  no  more  can 

bind, 
And  I  may  quit  for  aye  my  fellow  kind. 

Let  me  but  feel  athwart  my  cheek  the  lash 
Of  whipping  wind,  but  hear  the  torrent  dash 
Adown  the  mountain  steep,  'twere  more  my 

choice 
Than    touch    of    human    hand,    than   human 

voice. 

Let  me  but  wander  on  the  shore  night-stilled, 
Drinking  its  darkness  till  my  soul  is  filled  ; 
The  breathing  of  the  salt  sea  on  my  hair, 
My    outstretched    hands  but  grasping  empty 
air. 

Let  me  but  feel  the  pulse  of  Nature's  soul 
Athrob  on  mine,  let  seas  and  thunders  roll 
Oer  night  and  me  ;  sands  whirl  ;  winds,  waters 

beat  ; 
For  God's  grey  earth  has  no  cheap  counterfeit. 


REV.  JOHN   KEBLE 

THE  TWENTY-FOURTH  SUNDAY 
AFTER  TR1MTY 

"The  heart  knoweth  his  own  bitterness;  and  a  strang-er 
doth  not  intermeddle  with  his  joy." — Prov.  xiv.   10. 

WHY  should  we  faint  and  fear  to  live 
alone, 
Since  all   alone,  so    Heaven   has 
willed,  we  die, 
Nor  even  the  tenderest  heart,  and  next  our  ownT 
Knows  half  the  reasons  why  we  smile  and 
sigh  ? 

Each  in  his  hidden  sphere  of  joy  or  woe 
Our  hermit  spirits  dwell,  and  range  apart, 

Our  eyes  see  all  around  in  gloom  or  glow — 
Hues  of  their  own,  fresh  borrowed  from  the 
heart. 

And  well  it  is  for  us  our  God  should  feel 
Alone  our  secret  throbbings  :  so  our  prayer 

May  readier  spring  to  Heaven,  nor  spend  its- 
zeal 
On  cloud-born  idols  of  this  lower  air. 

For  if  one  heart  in  perfect  sympathy 

Beat  with  another,  answering  love  for  love. 

Weak  mortals,  all  entranced,  on  earth  would  lie, 
Nor  listen  for  those  purer  strains  above. 

147 


148     SACRED   POEMS  OF  THE 

Or  what  if  Heaven  for  once  its  searching  light 

Lent  to  some  partial  eye,  disclosing  all 
The   rude   bad   thoughts  that  in  our  bosom's 
night 
Wander   at    large,   nor    heed   Love's  gentle 
thrall  ? 

Who    would    not    shun    the    dreary   uncouth 
place  ? 

As  if,  fond  leaning  where  her  infant  slept, 
A  mother's  arm  a  serpent  should  embrace  : 

So  might  we  friendless  live,  and  die  unwept. 

Then  keep  the  softening  veil  in  mercy  drawn, 
Thou  who  canst  love  us,  though  Thou  read 
us  true  ; 

As  on  the  bosom  of  the  aerial  lawn 

Melts  in  dim  haze  each  coarse  ungentle  hue. 


Thou    know' st    our    bitterness — our    joys   are 
Thine  ; 
No    stranger   Thou    to    all    our   wanderings 
wild  : 
Nor  could  we  bear  to  think  how  every  line 
Of  us,  Thy  darkened  likeness  and  defiled, 

Stands  in  full  sunshine  of  Thy  piercing  eye, 
But   that   Thou   call'st  us   Brethren  :   sweet 
repose 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY      149 

Is  in  that  word  !  the  Lord  who  dwells  on  high 
Knows    all,   yet   loves    us    better    than    He 
knows. 

THE  FOURTH  SUSDAY  IN  LENT 

"Joseph  made  haste;  for  his  bowels  did  yearn  upon  his 
brother  :  and  he  sought  where  to  weep  ;  and  he  entered  into 
his  chamber,  and  wept  there." — Gen.  xliii.  30. 

11  There  stood  no  man  with  him,  while  Joseph  made 
himself  known  unto  his  brethren." — Gen.  xlv.  1. 


W 


HEN  Nature  tries  her  finest  touch, 

Weaving  her  vernal  wreath, 
Mark  ye,  how  close  she  veils  her 
round, 
Not  to  be  traced  by  sight  or  sound 
Nor  soiled  by  ruder  breath  ! 


Who  ever  saw  the  earliest  rose 
First  open  her  sweet  breast  ? 
Or,  when  the  summer  sun  goes  down, 
The  first  soft  star  in  evening's  crown 
Light  up  her  gleaming  crest? 

Fondly  we  seek  the  dawning  bloom 
On  features  wan  and  fair, — 

The  gazing  eye  no  change  can  trace 

But  look  away  a  little  space, 
Then  turn,  and,  lo  !  'tis  there. 


150     SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

But  there's  a  sweeter  flower  than  e'er 

Blushed  on  the  rosy  spray — 
A  brighter  star,  a  richer  bloom 
Than  e'er  did  western  heaven  illume 

At  close  of  summer  day. 

Tis  Love,  the  last  best  gift  of  Heaven  ; 

Love  gentle,  holy,  pure  : 
But  tenderer  than  a  dove's  soft  eye, 
The  searching  sun,  the  open  sky, 

She  never  could  endure. 

Even  human  Love  will  shrink  from  sight 

Here  in  the  coarse  rude  earth  : 
How  then  should  rash  intruding  glance 
Break  in  upon  her  sacred  trance 
Who  boasts  a  heavenly  birth  ? 

So  still  and  secret  is  her  growth. 

Ever  the  truest  heart. 
Where  deepest  strikes  her  kindly  root 
For  hope  or  joy,  for  flower  or  fruit, 

Least  knows  its  happy  part. 

God  only,  and  good  Angels,  look 

Behind  the  blissful  screen — 
As  when,  triumphant  o'er  His  woes. 
The  Son  of  God  by  moonlight  rose, 

Bv  all  but  Heaven  unseen  : 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY      151 

As  when  the  holy  Maid  beheld 

Her  risen  Son  and  Lord  : 
Thought  has  not  colours  half  so  fair 
That  she  to  paint  that  hour  may  dare, 

In  silence  best  adored. 

The  gracious  Dove,  that  brought  from  Heaven 

The  earnest  of  our  bliss, 
Of  many  a  chosen  witness  telling 
On  many  a  happy  vision  dwelling, 

Sings  not  a  note  of  this. 

So,  truest  image  of  the  Christ, 

Old  Israel's  long-lost  son, 
What  time,  with  sweet  forgiving  cheer. 
He  called  his  conscious  brethren  near, 

Would  weep  with  them  alone. 

He  could  not  trust  his  melting  soul 

But  in  his  Maker's  sight — 
Then  why  should  gentle  hearts  and  true 
Bare  to  the  rude  world's  withering  view 

Their  treasure  of  delight ! 

No — let  the  dainty  rose  awhile 

Her  bashful  fragrance  hide — 
Rend  not  her  silken  veil  too  soon, 
But  leave  her,  in  her  own  soft  noon. 

To  flourish  and  abide. 


H.  W.   LONGFELLOW 

THE  DAY  IS  DOSE 


T 


HE  day  is  done  and  the  darkness 
Falls  from  the  wings  of  Night, 
As  a  feather  is  wafted  downward 
From  an  eagle  in  his  flight. 


I  see  the  lights  of  the  village 

Gleam  through  the  rain  and  the  mist, 
And  a  feeling  of  sadness  comes  o'er  me, 

That  my  soul  cannot  resist : 

A  feeling  of  sadness  and  longing, 

That  is  not  akin  to  pain, 
And  resembles  sorrow  only 

As  the  mist  resembles  the  rain. 

Come,  read  to  me  some  poem, 
Some  simple  and  heartfelt  lay. 

That  shall  soothe  this  restless  feeling, 
And  banish  the  thoughts  of  day. 

Not  from  the  grand  old  masters, 
Not  from  the  bards  sublime, 

Whose  distant  footsteps  echo 
Through  the  corridors  of  Time. 

For,  like  strains  of  martial  music, 
Their  mighty  thoughts  suggest 

152 


SACRED  POEMS  153 

Life's  endless  toil  and  endeavour  ; 
And  to-night  I  long  for  rest. 

Read  from  some  humbler  poet, 
Whose  songs  gushed  from  his  heart, 

As  showers  from  the  clouds  of  summer 
Or  tears  from  the  eyelids  start ; 


Who,  through  long  days  of  labour, 
And  nights  devoid  of  ease, 

Still  heard  in  his  soul  the  music 
Of  wonderful  melodies. 


Such  songs  have  power  to  quiet 
The  restless  pulse  of  care, 

And  come  like  the  benediction 
That  follows  after  prayer. 


Then  read  from  the  treasured  volume 

The  poem  of  thy  choice, 
And  lend  to  the  rhyme  of  the  poet 

The  beauty  of  thy  voice  ; 

And  the  night  shall  be  filled  with  music, 
And  the  cares,  that  infest  the  day, 

Shall  fold  their  tents,  like  the  Arabs, 
And  as  silently  steal  away. 


154     SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

THE  LEGES D  BEAUTIFUL 

"Had'st  thou  stayed,  I  must  have  fled!" 
That  is  what  the  Vision  said. 

IN  his  chamber  all  alone, 
Kneeling  on  the  floor  of  stone, 
Prayed  the  monk  in  deep  contrition 
For  his  sins  of  indecision, 
Prayed  for  greater  self-denial 
In  temptation  and  in  trial  ; 
It  was  noonday  by  the  dial. 
And  the  Monk  was  all  alone. 

Suddenly,  as  if  it  lightened, 
An  unwonted  splendour  brightened 
All  within  him  and  without  him 
In  that  narrow  cell  of  stone  ; 
And  he  saw  the  Blessed  Vision 
Of  our  Lord,  with  light  Elysian 
Like  a  vesture  wrapped  about  him, 
Like  a  garment  round  him  thrown. 

Not  as  crucified  and  slain, 

Not  in  agonies  of  pain, 

Not  with  bleeding  hands  and  feet 

Did  the  Monk  his  Master  see  ; 

But  as  in  the  village  street, 

In  the  house  or  harvest-field, 

Halt  and  lame  and  blind  he  healed, 

When  He  walked  in  Galilee. 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY     155 

In  an  attitude  imploring, 

Hands  upon  his  bosom  crossed, 

Wondering,  worshipping,  adoring, 

Knelt  the  Monk  in  rapture  lost. 

Lord,  he  thought,  in  heaven  that  reignest 

Who  am  I,  that  thus  Thou  deignest 

To  reveal  Thyself  to  me  ? 

Who  am  I,  that  from  the  centre 

Of  Thy  glory  Thou  shouldst  enter 

This  poor  cell,  my  guest  to  be  ? 

Then  amid  his  exaltation, 
Loud  the  convent  bell  appalling, 
From  its  belfry  calling,  calling, 
Rang  through  court  and  corridor 
With  persistent  iteration 
He  had  never  heard  before. 
It  was  now  the  appointed  hour 
When  alike  in  shine  or  shower, 
Winters  cold  or  summer's  heat, 
To  the  convent  portals  came 
All  the  blind  and  halt  and  lame, 
All  the  beggars  of  the  street, 
For  their  daily  dole  of  food 
Dealt  them  by  the  brotherhood  ■ 
And  their  almoner  was  he 
Who  upon  his  bended  knee, 
Rapt  in  silent  ecstasy 
Of  divinest  self-surrender, 
Saw  the  Vision  and  the  Splendour. 


156     SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

Deep  distress  and  hesitation 
Mingled  with  his  adoration  ; 
Should  he  go,  or  should  he  stay  ? 
Should  he  leave  the  poor  to  wail 
Hungry  at  the  convent  gate, 
Till  the  Vision  passed  away  ? 
Should  he  slight  his  radiant  guest, 
Slight  his  visitant  celestial, 
For  a  crowd  of  ragged,  bestial 
Beggars  at  the  convent  gate? 
Would  the  Vision  there  remain  ? 
Would  the  Vision  come  again  ? 

Then  a  voice  within  his  breast 
Whispered,  audible  and  clear, 
As  if  to  the  outward  ear  : 
"  Do  thy  duty  ;  that  is  best ; 
Leave  unto  thy  Lord  the  rest ! ,1 

Straightway  to  his  feet  he  started, 
And  with  longing  look  intent 
On  the  Blessed  Vision  bent, 
Slowly  from  his  cell  departed, 
Slowly  on  his  errand  went. 

At  the  gate  the  poor  were  waiting. 
Looking  through  the  iron  grating, 
With  that  terror  in  the  eye 
That  is  only  seen  in  those 
Who  amid  their  wants  and  woes 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY     157 

Hear  the  sound  of  doors  that  close, 
And  of  feet  that  pass  them  by  ; 
Grown  familiar  with  disfavour, 
Grown  familiar  with  the  savour 
Of  the  bread  by  which  men  die  ! 
But  to-day,  they  knew  not  why, 
Like  the  gate  of  Paradise 
Seemed  the  convent  gate  to  rise, 
Like  a  sacrament  divine 
Seemed  to  them  the  bread  and  wine. 
In  his  heart  the  Monk  was  praying 
Thinking  of  the  homeless  poor, 
What  they  suffer  and  endure  ; 
What  we  see  not,  what  we  see  ; 
And  the  inward  voice  was  saying  ; 
"Whatsoever  thing  thou  doest 
To  the  least  of  mine  and  lowest, 
That  thou  doest  unto  Me  ! " 

Unto  Me  !  but  had  the  Vision 
Come  to  him  in  beggar's  clothing, 
Come  a  mendicant  imploring, 
Would  he  then  have  knelt  adoring, 
Or  have  listened  with  derision, 
And  have  turned  away  with  loathing? 

Thus  his  conscience  put  the  question, 
Full  of  troublesome  suggestion, 
As  at  length,  with  hurried  pace, 
Towards  his  cell  he  turned  his  face, 


158     SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

And  beheld  the  convent  bright 
With  a  supernatural  light, 
Like  a  luminous  cloud  expanding 
Over  floor  and  wall  and  ceiling. 

But  he  paused  with  awe-struck  feeling 
At    the  threshold  of  his  door, 
For  the  Vision  still  was  standing 
As  he  left  it  there  before, 

When  the  convent  bell  appalling, 
From  its  belfry  calling,  calling, 
Summoned  him  to  feed  the  poor. 
Through  the  long  hour  intervening 
It  had  waited  his  return, 
And  he  felt  his  bosom  burn, 
Comprehending  all  the  meaning, 
When  the  Blessed  Vision  said, 
"  Had'st  thou  stayed,  I  must  have  fled  ! M 


THE  TWO  ANGELS 

TWO   angels,   one   of    Life    and    one    of 
Death, 
Passed  o'er  our  village  as  the  morn- 
ing broke  ; 
The  dawn  was  on  their  faces,  and  beneath. 
The  sombre  houses  hearsed  with  plumes  of 
smoke. 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY     159 

Their  attitude  and  aspect  were  the  same, 
Alike  their  features  and  their  robes  of  white ; 

But  one  was  crowned  with  amaranth,  as  with 
flame, 
And  one  with  asphodels,  like  flakes  of  light. 

I  saw  them  pause  on  their  celestial  way  ; 

Then  I,    with    deep    fear    and    doubt 

oppressed, 
"  Beat  not  so  loud,  my  heart,  lest  thou  betray 

The  place  where  thy  beloved  are  at  rest  ! v 

And  he  who  wore  the  crown  of  asphodels, 
Descending,  at  my  door  began  to  knock, 

And  my  soul  sank  within  me,  as  in  wells 
The    waters    sink    before    an    earthquake's 
shock. 

I  recognised  the  nameless  agony, 
The  terror  and  the  tremor  and  the  pain, 

That  oft  before  had  filled  or  haunted  me 
And   now  returned  with   threefold   strength 
again. 

The  door  I  opened  to  my  heavenly  guest, 
And   listened,  for  I  thought  I  heard  God's 
voice  ; 

And,  knowing  whatsoe'er  He  sent  was  best, 
Dared  neither  to  lament  nor  to  rejoice. 


160  SACRED  POEMS 

Then  with  a  smile,  that  filled  the  house  with 
light, 
"My  errand    is    not    Death,   but    Life/'   he 
said  ; 
And  ere  I  answered,  passing  out  of  sight, 
On  his  celestial  embassy  he  sped. 

?Twas  at  thy  door,  O  friend  !  and  not  at  mine. 
The  angel  with  the  amaranthine  wreath. 

Pausing,  descended,  and  with  voice  divine. 
Whispered  a  word   that  had   a   sound   like 
Death. 

Then  fell  upon  the  house  a  sudden  gloom, 

A  shadow  on  those  features  fair  and  thin  ; 
And   softly  from   that  hushed   and   darkened 

room, 
Two  angels  issued,  where  but  one  went  in. 

All  is  of  God  !     If  He  but  wave  His  hand, 
The  mists  collect,  the   rain   falls  thick   and 
loud, 
Till,  with  a  smile  of  light  on  sea  and  land, 
Lo  !  He  looks  back  from  the  departing  cloud. 

Angels  of  Life  and  Death  alike  are  His ; 
Without  His  leave   they   pass   no   threshold 
o'er  ; 
Who  then  would  wish  or  dare,  believing  this. 
Against  His  messengers  to  shut  the  door? 


G.   R.   LOWELL 

SONNET 

I    CANNOT  think  that  thou  shouldst  pass 
away, 
Whose  life  to  mine  is  an  eternal  law, 
A  piece  of  nature  that  can  have  no  flaw, 
A  new  and  certain  sunrise  every  day  ; 
But,  if  thou  art  to  be  another  ray 
About  the  Sun  of  Life,  and  art  to  live 
Free  from  all  of  thee  that  was  fugitive, 
The  debt  of  Love  I  will  more  fully  pay, 
Not  downcast  with  the  thought  of  thee  so  high, 
But,  rather,  raised  to  be  a  nobler  man, 
And  more  divine  in  my  humanity, 
As  knowing  that  the  waiting  eyes  which  scan 
My  life,  are  lighted  by  a  purer  being, 
And   ask   meek,   calm-browed  deeds,   with   it 
agreeing. 


11  161 


HENRY   FRANCIS   LYTE 

ABIDE  WITH  ME 

ABIDE  with  me  !  fast  falls  the  even-tide; 
The  darkness  deepens  ;  Lord,  with  me 
abide. 
When  other  helpers  fail,  and  comforts  flee, 
Help  of  the  helpless,  O  abide  with  me  ! 

Swift  to  its  close  ebbs  out  life's  little  day  ; 
Earth's  joys  grow  dim  ;  its  glories  pass  away: 
Change  and  decay  in  all  around  I  see  ; 
O  Thou,  who  changest  not,  abide  with  me  ! 

Not  a  brief  glance  I  beg,  a  passing  word  ; 
But,  as  Thou  dwell'st  with  Thy  disciples,  Lord, 
Familiar,  condescending,  patient,  free, 
Come,  not  to  sojourn,  but  abide,  with  me  ! 

Come  not  in  terrors,  as  the  King  of  kings  ; 
But  kind  and  good,  with  healing  in  Thy  wings; 
Tears  for  all  woes,  a  heart  for  every  plea  ; 
Come,  Friend  of  sinners,  and  thus  'bide  with 
me  ! 

Thou  on  my  head  in  early  youth  didst  smile; 
And,  though    rebellious   and    perverse    mean- 
while, 
Thou  hast  not  left  me,  oft  as  I  left  Thee : 
On  to  the  close,  O  Lord,  abide  with  me. 

162 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY     163 

I  need  Thy  Presence  every  passing  hour  : 
What   but   Thy  grace   can   foil   the   tempters 


power  ? 


Who  like  Thyself  my  guide  and  stay  can  be? 
Through   cloud   and   sunshine,  O   abide   with 


me  ! 


I  fear  no  foe,  with  Thee  at  hand  to  bless  : 
Ills  have  no  weight,  and  tears  no  bitterness  r 
Where  is  Death's    sting  ?   where,    Grave,    thy 

victory'  ? 
I  triumph  still,  if  Thou  abide  with  me  ! 

Hold  then  Thy  cross  before  my  closing  eyesL 
Shine   through   the  gloom,   and   point   me  to 

the  skies  ! 
Heaven's    morning    breaks,    and    earth's   vain 

shadows  flee  ; 
In  life  and  death,  O  Lord,  abide  with  me  ! 


HE  IS  M1SE 

LONG  did  I  toil,  and  knew  no   earthly 
rest  ; 
Far  did   I  rove,  and  found  no  certain 
home  ; 
At  last  I  sought  them  in  His  sheltering  breast, 
Who   opes   His  arms,  and  bids  the  weary 
come  : 


164     SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

With  Him  I  found  a  home,  a  rest  Divine  ; 
And  I  since  then  am  His,  and  He  is  mine. 

Yes  !  He  is  mine  !  and  nought  of  earthly  things, 
Not  all  the  charms  of  pleasure,  wealth,  or 
power, 

The  fame  of  heroes,  or  the  pomp  of  kings, 
Could  tempt  me  to  forego  His  love  an  hour. 

Go,  worthless  world,  I  cry,  with  all  that's  thine! 

Go  !  I  my  Saviour's  am,  and  He  is  mine. 

The  good  I  have  is  from  His  stores  supplied ; 

The  ill  is  only  what  He  deems  the  best ; 
He    for    my    Friend,    I'm    rich    with    nought 
beside  ; 

And  poor  without  Him,  though  of  all  possest: 
Changes  may  come  ;  I  take,  or  1  resign  ; 
Content,  while  I  am  His,  while  He  is  mine. 

Whate'er  may  change,  in  Him  no  change  is 
seen  ; 

A  glorious  Sun,  that  wanes  not  nor  declines; 
Above  the  clouds  and  storms  He  walks  serene, 

And  sweetly  on  His  people's  darkness  shines: 
All  may  depart  ;  I  fret  not,  nor  repine, 
While  I  my  Saviour's  am,  while  He  is  mine. 

He  stays  me  falling,  lifts  me  up  when  down, 
Reclaims  me  wandering,  guards  from  every 
foe  ; 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY     165 

Plants    on    my    worthless    brow    the    victor's 
crown  ; 
Which,  in  return,  before  His  feet  I  throw, 
Grieved  that  I  cannot  better  grace  His  shrine, 
Who  deigns  to  own  me  His,  and  He  is  mine. 

While  here,  alas  !  I  know  but  half  His  love, 
But  half  discern  Him,  and  but  half  adore  ; 

But  when  I  meet  Him  in  the  realms  above, 
I  hope  to  love  Him  better,  praise  Him  more, 

And  feel,  and  tell,  amid  the  choir  Divine, 

How  fully  I  am  His,  and  He  is  mine. 


GEORGE  MACDONALD 

A  DREAM  OF  THE  CROSS 


I 


LAY  and  dreamed.     Three  crosses  stood 

Amid  the  gloomy  air. 
Two  bore  two  men — one  was  the  Good  ; 

The  third  rose  waiting,  bare. 


A  Roman  soldier,  coming  by, 

Mistook  me  for  the  third  ; 
I  lifted  up  my  asking  eye 

For  Jesus'  sign  or  word. 

I  thought  He  signed  that  I  should  yield, 

And  give  the  error  way. 
I  held  my  peace  ;  no  word  revealed, 

No  gesture  uttered  nay. 

Against  the  cross  a  scaffold  stood, 
Whence  easy  hands  could  nail 

The  doomed  upon  that  altar-wood, 
Whose  fire  burns  slow  and  pale. 

Upon  its  floor  he  lifted  me  ; 

I  stood  all  thoughtful  there, 
Waiting  until  the  deadly  tree 

My  form  for  fruit  should  bear. 

Rose  up  the  waves  of  fear  and  doubt, 

Rose  up  from  heart  to  brain  ; 

166 


SACRED  POEMS  167 

They  shut  the  world  of  vision  out, 
And  thus  they  cried  amain  : 

"  Ah  me  !  my  hands — the  hammer's  knock — 
The  nails — the  tearing  strength  ! " 

My  soul  replied  :  "  Tis  but  a  shock 
That  grows  to  pain  at  length." 

44  Ah  me  !  the  awful  fight  with  death  ; 

The  hours  to  hang  and  die  ; 
The  thirsting  gasp  for  common  breath 

That  passes  heedless  by!" 

My  soul  replied  :  "  A  faintness  soon 

Will  shroud  thee  in  its  fold  ; 
The  hours  will  go, — the  fearful  noon 

Rise,  pass — and  thou  art  cold. 

44  And  for  thy  suffering,  what  to  thee 

Is  that  ?  or  care  of  thine  ? 
Thou  living  branch  upon  the  tree 

Whose  root  is  the  Divine  ! 

44 'Tis  His  to  care  that  thou  endure    ; 

That  pain  shall  grow  or  fade  ; 
With  bleeding  hands  hang  on  thy  cure  i 

He  knows  what  he  hath  made." 

And  still  for  all  the  inward  wail, 
My  foot  was  firmly  pressed  ; 


168     SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

For  still  the  fear  lest  I  should  fail 
Was  stronger  than  the  rest. 

And  thus  I  stood,  until  the  strife 

The  bonds  of  slumber  brake. 
I  felt  as  I  had  ruined  life, 

Had  fled,  and  come  awake 

Yet  I  was  glad,  my  heart  confessed, 

The  trial  went  not  on  ; 
Glad,  likewise,  I  had  stood  the  test 

As  far  as  it  had  gone. 

And  yet  I  fear  some  recreant  thought, 

Which  now  I  all  forget, 
This  painful  feeling  in  me  wrought 

Of  failure,  lingering  yet. 

And  if  the  dream  had  had  its  scope, 

I  might  have  fled  the  field  ; 
But  yet  1  thank  Thee  for  the  hope, 

And  think  I  dared  not  yield. 

SONNET 

AND    weep    not,  though    the    Beautiful 
decay 
Within   thy  heart,  as   daily   in   thine 
eyes  ; 
Thy   heart   must   have    its   Autumn,   its    pale 
skies, 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY     169 

Leading,    mayhap,   to    Winter's   cold    dismay. 
Yet  doubt  not.      Beauty  doth  not  pass  away  ; 
Her  form  departs  not,  though  her  body  dies. 
Secure  beneath  the   earth  the   snowdrop  lies, 
Waiting  Spring's  young  resurrection  day, 
Through  the  kind  nurture  of  the  Winter  cold. 
Nor  seek  thou  by  vain  effort  to  revive 
The  Summer  time,  when  roses  were  alive  : 
Do  thou  thy  work — be  willing  to  be  old  ; 
Thy  sorrow  is  the  husk  that  doth  enfold 
A  gorgeous  June  for  which  thou  need'st  not 
strive. 


SONNET 

AND    should    the   twilight    deepen   into 
night, 
And  sorrow  grow  to  anguish,  be  thou 
strong  ; 
Thou  art  in  God  and  nothing  can  go  wrong 
That  a  fresh  life-pulse  cannot  set  aright ; 
That    thou    dost  know  the    darkness,   proves 

the  light. 
Weep  if  thou  wilt,  but  weep  not  thou  too  long  ; 
Or  weep  and  work,  for  work  will  lead  to  song. 
But  search  thy  heart,  if  hid  from  all  thy  sight 
There  lie  no  cause  for  Beauty's  slow  decay  ; 
If  for  completeness  and  diviner  youth, 
And  not  for  very  love,  thou  lov'st  the  truth  ; 


170  SACRED  POEMS 

If  thou  hast  learned  to  give  thyself  away 
For  love's  own  self,  not  for  thyself,  I  say  : 
Were   God's   love   less,   the   world    were   lost, 
in  sooth. 


SONNET 

AND   do   not  fear  to  hope.     Can  poet's 
brain 
More    than   the    Father's   heart    rich 
good  invent  ? 
Each     time    we    smell     the    autumn's    dying 

scent, 
We  know  the  primrose  time  will  come  again  ; 
Not  more  we  hope,  nor  less  would  soothe  our 

pain. 
Be  bounteous  in   thy  faith,  for  not  mis-spent 
Is  confidence  unto  the  Father  lent  : 
Thy   need   is  sown   and   rooted  for  His   rain. 
His  thoughts  are  as  thine  own  ;  nor  are  His 

ways 
Other  than  thine,  but  by  their  loftier  sense 
Of  beauty  infinite,  and  love  intense. 
Work   on.     One  day,  beyond  all  thoughts  of 

praise, 
A  sunny  joy  will  crown  thy  head  with  rays  ; 
Nor  other  than  thy  need  thy  recompense. 


REV.  GEORGE  MATHESON,  D.D. 

O  LOVE,    THAT    WILT  NOT  LET 
ME  GO 

OLOVE,  that  wilt  not  let  me  go, 
I  rest  my  weary  soul  in  thee  : 
I  give  Thee  back  the  life  I  owe, 
That  in  Thine  ocean  depths  its  flow 
May  richer,  fuller  be. 

O  Light,  that  followest  all  my  way, 

I  yield  my  flick'ring  torch  to  Thee  ; 
My  heart  restores  its  borrow1  d  ray, 
That  in  thy  sunshines  blaze  its  day 
May  brighter,  fairer  be. 

0  Joy,  that  seekest  me  thro'  pain, 

I  cannot  close  my  heart  to  Thee  ; 

1  trace  the  rainbow  thro'  the  rain, 
And  feel  the  promise  is  not  vain, 

That  morn  shall  tearless  be. 

0  Cross,  that  liftest  up  my  head, 

I  dare  not  ask  to  fly  from  Thee  ; 

1  lay  in  dust,  life's  glory  dead, 

And  from  the  ground  there  blossoms  red 
Life  that  shall  endless  be. 


171 


B.  M. 

DESOLA  TE 

11  And  her  husband  went  with  her  along  weeping  behind 
her  to  Bahurim.  Then  said  Abner  unto  him,  Go,  return. 
And  he  returned."  x 

WE   dwelt   together,  by  the  grace  of 
God, 
Through  golden  years  of  sunshine. 
Day  by  day 
In  raiment  white  as  snow  she  walked  with  me, 
And  daily  grew  more  dear.     Oh,  sweet  to  us, 
Beyond  all  word  or  dream,  that  mutual  life 
Which  God  had  given  us  richly  to  enjoy, 
Its  happy  labours, — blessed   rests    between, — 
Summer  and  Winter,  Spring-time  and  the  joy 
Of  Harvest  Home. 

Yet  even  then,  I  know 
That  far  above,  beyond  my  duller  sight, 
Her  hope  was  centred  ;  every  lovely  gift 
That  graced  our  home  on  earth,  was  unto  her 
A  shadow  and  example  of  the  things 
Prepared    in     Heaven.     Brighter    glowed    her 

trust, 
More  spiritual   and   still   more   fair  her  hope, 
As  each  fresh  blessing  from  our  Father's  hand 
Fell  softly,  crowning  us.     If  thus,  she  said, 
Beyond  all  thought  or  promise,  this  brief  life 

1  This  verse  is  used  only  as  a  motto,  and  the  poem  bears 
no  reference  to  the  history  of  Michal. 

172 


SACRED  POEMS  173 

Grew   dear  and   wonderful,  what   must   it  be 
To  dwell  within  the  City,  fair  and  still 
Which  shall  be  ours  for  ever? 

Grief  or  care 
Had    scarcely   touched   her — in    our  sheltered 

home 
She  knew  no  sorrow  ;  Peace  and  Charity 
Dwelt    sweetly    where    she    dwelt,    and    Joy 

became 
A   frequent  guest,   and   loved   to  sit  with  her 
And  make  her  sing.     Yet  pitiful  she  was 
To  all  who  suffered,  measuring  loss  and  woe 
By  the  large  measure  of  her  own  deep  heart, 
And   by   the  vastness   of  its  treasure.      Thus 
Even  through  joy  she  knew  the  secret  pang 
Of  sorrow  ;  and  through  riches,  poverty, 
And  loss  by  gain. 

And  day  by  day  she   sought 
The  stricken  homes  beside  whose  desolate 
And    silent   hearths    sat    Want,    or    Pain,   or 

Death  — 
Those  terrible  guests  who  ask  for  no   man's 

leave, 
But  lift  the  latch,  and  enter,  and  sit  down  ; — 
There  came  she,  as  an  angel,  with  the  cup 
Of  consolation  in  her  tender  hand, 
And  ministered,  with  tears  of  sympathy, 
To  every  mourning  spirit. 

Golden  years 
Of  service  and  of  hope  swept  over  us 


174    SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

Thus  sweetly.     Brighter  grew  our  home,  more 

dear 
Our  daily  life  together  ;  God  Himself 
Shone  on  us,  making  all  we  took  in  hand 
To  grow  and  prosper.     And  as  time  went  by 
He  daily  joined  our  hearts  more  perfectly, 
And  made  us  one. 

Until  there  came  a  day, — 
A  day  to  me  of  heaviness  and  woe 
Beyond     repair, — when     He    who     thus    had 

blessed 
And  bound  us  to  each  other,  soul  to  soul, 
Divided  us.     He  claimed  His  awful  right 
To   put  asunder  those  whom  He  had  joined. 
His   sword   is  powerful,  quick    and    keen    to 

pierce, 
Dividing  even  soul  and  spirit,  joints 
And  marrow,  living  heart  and  heart  entwined 
In  holy  wedlock.     Who  can  bid  it  stay. 
Or  say,  "  Put  up  thyself,  O  Sword  of  God, 
Return  into  thy  scabbard,  rest,  be  still, 
Here  is  no  place  for  thee  "  ?     How  can  it  rest 
When  God  hath  given  it  a  charge  ? 

It  fell 
Upon  a  glorious  day  in  harvest-time, — 
When,  under  smiling  skies,  the  golden  grain 
Was  carried  home  with  singing, — that  a  word 
Was  brought  unto  my  love  ;  the  King  Himself 
Desired    her    presence — He    would    have   her 

leave 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY     175 

Her  home,  and  all  she  had,  and  go  to  Him. 
Ah  !  oftentimes,  in  peaceful  evening  hours, 
When  we  together  sat,  to  see  the  sun 
Sink    smiling   toward   the   sea,   my    love   had 

said, — 
"  How  sweet  if,  by  the  pitying  grace  of  God, 
The  sun  at  length  upon  us  both   might  set, 
And  we  together  pass  into  the  Dawn 
Of  His  Celestial  Day  !     Oh,  hand  in  hand, 
To  leave  the  sweetness  of  our  earthly  home 
For  one  prepared  above  ;    together  still 
To  enter  by  the  Gate,  to  see  the  King, 
And    with    one    heart    to    taste    the    cup    of 

joy 

Which  He  has  mingled." 

This  her  tender  dream 
Was  crossed   by   Heaven,  for  she  was  called 

alone. 
She  heard  the  message,  kissed  the  token  sent, 
And  rose  up,  pale  but  smiling,  to  depart 
With   those  who   came   to   seek   her.     Yet   to 

me 
She  stretched  her  hands,  and  bade   me   lead 

her  forth 
A  little  way  upon  this  journey  strange 
And  solemn.     "  Come  with  me,"  she  said,  "  O 

come 
As  far,  along  that  shadowy  road, — as  far 
As  any  step  of  mortal  man  may  go 
And  yet  return." 


176     SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

Then  slowly  forth  we  went, 
Hand   locked  in   hand.     We  left  behind   the 

stir 
Of  common  sounds,  we  passed  into  the  waste 
And  solitary  space  that  girdles  round 
Our  daily  life  ;  a  shadowy  path  we  found. 
And  followed  but  a  little  way,  when,  lo  ! 
Before  us  suddenly  upon  the  hills, 
More  glorious  than  the  sun,  the  City  shone 
With  open  gates  of  welcome,  and   I  saw 
The   answering   brightness   on  my  dear  ones 

face, 
Whilst  darkness  covered  mine. 

The  Messengers 
Sent  by  the  King  had  lingered, — pitying 
My  speechless  grief, — behind  us  by  the   way  ; 
But  now  they  came  to  us,  and  tenderly 
Withdrew  her  little  clinging  hand  from  mine, 
And  gently  hastened  her,  the  King's  command 
Being  urgent. 

Then  my  love  before  me  went, 
With   glad,  swift  steps  ascending,  and   bright 

face 
Set  steadfastly  toward  Jerusalem  ; 
Yet  in  her  joy  she  still  remembered  me, 
And     paused     and     turned,    and     sought     by 

sweetest  signs 
And   looks   to   cheer   me,   as   I,   broken,  went 
Behind  her  weeping.     Till  the  Messengers 
Drew  near  again,  and  touched  me,  saying  low, 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY     177 

In  heavenly  voices,  soft  with  pity, — "  Go, 
Return.     Thou  mayst  not  follow,  yet  uncalled, 
These  happy  footsteps  to  the  City  gates 
And  to  the  presence  of  the  King.     Behold  ! 
Already  she  is  passing  from  thy  gaze — 
A  bright  cloud  overshadows  her — she  goes 
Into  the  Glory  which  no  man  shall  see 
And  live  ;  and  we  attend  her.     Go,  return," 

And  I  returned.     To  this  bare  home  of  mine 
Where   all    is   changed    and    dim,   and   every 

flower 
Has  withered   in   its  place,  and  every   sound 
Is  charged  with  sorrow,  I  returned  alone 
And  desolate  for  ever.     Nights  and  days 
Swept  over  me  ;  I  saw  no  sun  nor  stars, 
But  sat  in  equal  darkness  at  noon-day, 
And   midnight,   for   my   light   was   gone  from 

me. 
And    strange    it    seemed    to    think    that    far 

away 
In  the  Celestial  City,  where  they  know 
No  night  nor  shadow,  she  in  Glory  dwelt 
Whilst  darkness  covered  me. 

Yet  light  was  sown 
Even  for  me,  around  my  ruined  home, 
And  in  a  litttle  while  began  to  spring  : 
The  seed  my  love  had  scattered  far  and  free 
Beside  all  waters,  now  returned  to  me 
In  blessings  manifold  ;  the  poor  and  sad 

12 


178     SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

Whom  she  had  visited  and  cheered  and  fed 
Prayed  day  and  night  for  me  ;  until  the  Love 
That  once  had  seemed  so  distant — seated  far 
Above    the   heavens — came   down   and   dwelt 

with  me, 
Familiar,  patient,  in  this  lonely  place. 

And   I  grow  patient,  too,  and  am  content 
With  bare,  still  days  of  Winter,  softly  lit 
By  memories  of  golden  Summer  flown, 
And  hope  of  perfect  Summer  yet  to  come 
Which   shall   restore    my    treasure.     Day    by 

day 
I  seek  to  follow  her,  and  everywhere, — 
In  homes  of  sorrow,  in  the  place  of  prayer, 
Or  in   the   wide,   white   Harvest-field, — I    find 
And  kiss  her  blessed  footprints. 

Far  behind, 
Ah  !  far  behind   her, — weeping   still   at   times, 
Yet  comforted, — I  press  toward  the  Hills 
Where,  crowned  with  joy,  my  love  is  waiting 

me. 
On  the  bright  threshold  of  eternal  Peace 
Mine    eyes    shall    see    her   standing    pure    as 

snow 
And  radiant  as  the  dawn,  to  welcome  me. 
Oh,  but  to  picture  that  first  look,  the  smile 
With   which   she   will  receive   me,  makes  my 

heart 
Grow  faint  with  joy  and  wonder. 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY     179 

As  a  child 
At  Home,  familiar  in  the  Father's  House, 
She,   smiling   still,   will   lead   me   to  His   feet, 
And  I,  too,  shall  behold  Him  face  to  Face 
Whom,  not  having  seen,   I  lore.     There  shall 

we  taste, 
As  with  one  heart,  that  cup  of  infinite  joy 
Which   He  hath  mingled  ;  for  the  King   shall 

shine 
Upon  us  gloriously,  and  make  us  one. 
And  in  the  days  that  follow — golden  days, 
Celestial  still  and  clear — she  shall  be  mine, — 
Oh,  once  again   mine   own,   for   ever  mine, — 
Spirit  to  spirit  bound  in  deathless  love 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  Throne  of  God. 


PHILIP  BOURKE  MARSTON 

TO-MORROW 

I    SAID   "  To-morrow ! "  one  bleak,  wintry 
day 
"  To-morrow  I  will  live  my  life  anew," — 

And   still   "  To-morrow  ! "    while  the  winter 
grew 
To  spring,  and  yet  I  dallied  by  the  way, 
And   sweet  dear  Sins   still   held   me  in   their 
sway  : 
"  To-morrow  ! "    I    said,  while  summer  days 

wore  through  ; 
"  To-morrow  ! M    while    chill   autumn   round 
me  drew  ; 
And  so  my  soul  remained  the  sweet  Sins'  prey. 

So  pass  the  years,  and  still,  perpetually, 
I  cry,  "  To-morrow  will  I  flee  each  wile — 

To-morrow,  surely,  shall  my  soul  stand  free, 
Safe  from  the  syren  voices  that  beguile  ! " 
But  death  waits  by  me  with  a  mocking  smile, 

And  whispers — "  Yea  !  To-morrow,  verily  ! ' 


180 


SACRED  POEMS  181 

AFTER  LOVE'S  PASSING 

THE  awful  stillness  in  two  human  souls 
Whence  Love  has  passed  away, 
The  dreary  night  no  moon  of  joy  con- 
trols 
The  undelightful  day — 

The   cruel   coldness  where   was   once   Love's 
heat, 

The  darkness  where  was  light, 
The  burning,  tearless  eyes,  the  weary  feet 

That  journey  day  and  night — 

The  long,  dark  way  that  has  no  end  but  one — 

That  goal  no  man  may  miss — 
The  winds  that  wail  about  the  sunken  sun 

For  life's  departed  bliss — 

The  fearful  loneliness  that  comes  between 
Those  souls  erst  one,  now  twain — 

The  passionate  memory  of  what  has  been  ; 
The  unavailing  pain — 

The  springs  that  come,  but  bring  no  hope  of 
change ; 
The  cheerless,  summer  hours  ; 
With   songs  of  birds  grown   old,   and   harsh, 
and  strange, 
And  scentless,  bloomless  flowers — 


182  SACRED    POEMS 

The  fruitless  autumn,  with  no  garnered  corn, 

The  dreary,  winter  weather — 
The  two  who  walk  apart,  alone,  forlorn, 

Who  once  kept  step  together — 

The  bitter  sense  of  failure  and  regret, 

The  life  without  an  aim, 
The  unavailing  struggle  to  forget 

The  weakness,  owned  with  shame — 

These  things  make  sad  the  night  and  sad  the 
day, 
And  hard  are  they  to  bear — 
Yet   let   those   souls  whence  Love  has  passed 
away 
Though  sad,  keep  pure  and  fair  : 

Ah  !  let  them  say,  "  Great  Love  once  tarried 
here, 
Making  his  home  divine — 
Though  he  has  passed,  yet  let  us  still   hold 
dear 
The  temple  and  the  shrine." 


LOUISE   CHANDLER  MOULTON 

SELFISH  PRAYER 


H 


OW  we,  poor  players  on   Life's  little 

stage, 
Thrust   blindly  at   each  other  in  our 


rage, 
Quarrel  and  fret  yet  rashly  dare  to  pray 
To  God  to  help  us  in  our  selfish  way  ! 

We  think  to  move  Him  with  our  prayer  and 

praise 
To  serve  our  needs — as  in  the  old  Greek  days 
Their  gods   came   down    and   mingled  in  the 

fight, 
With  mightier  arms  the  flying  foe  to  smite. 

The   laughter   of   those   gods   pealed  down  to 

men, 
For  heaven  was  but  earth's  upper  story,  then, 
Where  goddesses  about  an  apple  strove, 
And  the  high  gods  fell  humanly  in  love. 

We  own  a  God  whose  presence  fills  the  sky — 
Whose   sleepless  eyes   behold  the  worlds  roll 

by- 
Whose  faithful  memory  numbers  one  by  one 
The   sons  of  men,  and  calls  them   each   His 

son. 


183 


JOHN   HENRY  NEWMAN 

LEAD,  KINDLY  LIGHT 

LEAD,  kindly  light,  amid  the  encircling 
gloom, 
Lead  Thou  me  on  : 
The   night  is  dark,  and  I  am  far  from  home, 

Lead  Thou  me  on  : 
Keep  Thou  my  feet ;  I  do  not  ask  to  see 
The  distant  scene  ;  one  step  enough  for  me. 

I  was  not  ever  thus,  nor  prayed  that  Thou 

Shouldst  lead  me  on  : 
I  loved  to  choose  and  see  my  path  ;  but  now, 

Lead  Thou  me  on  : 
I  loved  the  garish  day,  and,  spite  of  fears, 
Pride    ruled    my    will  ;    remember    not    past 
years. 

So  long  Thy  power  hath  blest  me,  sure  it  still 

Will  lead  me  on, 
O'er  moor  and  fen,  o'er  crag  and  torrent,  till 

The  night  is  gone, 
And  with  the  morn  those  angel  faces  smile, 
Which  I  have  loved  long  since,  and  lost  awhile. 


184 


ROBERT  NICOLL 

A    THOUGHT 


Y 


ON  sail  on  the  horizon's  verge 

Doth  like  a  wandering  spirit  seem,- 
A  shadow  in  a  sea  of  light — 
The  passing  of  a  dream. 


A  moment  more  and  it  is  gone  ! 

We  know  not  how — we  know  not  where  : 
It  came — an  instant  stayed — and  then 

It  vanished  into  air. 

Such  are  we  all  : — we  sail  awhile 
In  joy,  on  life's  fair  summer  sea  : 

A  moment — and  our  bark  is  gone 
Into  Eternity. 


185 


BAPTIST  WRIOTHESLEY  NOEL 

THERE'S  NOT  A  BIRD 

THERE'S  not  a  bird,  with  lonely  nest 
In  pathless  wood  or  mountain  crest, 
Nor  meaner  thing,  which  does  not  share, 
O  God  !  in  Thy  paternal  care  ! 

There's  not  a  being  now  accurst, 
Who  did  not  taste  Thy  goodness  first ; 
And  every  joy  the  wicked  see 
Received  its  origin  from  thee. 

Each  barren  crag,  each  desert  rude, 
Holds  Thee  within  its  solitude  ; 
And  thou  dost  bless  the  wanderer  there, 
Who  makes  his  solitary  prayer. 

In  busy  mart  and  crowded  street, 
No  less  than  in  the  still  retreat, 
Thou,  Lord,  art  near,  our  souls  to  bless 
With  all  a  parents  tenderness  ! 

And  every  moment  still  doth  bring 
Thy  blessings  on  its  loaded  wing  ; 
Widely  they  spread  through  earth  and  sky, 
And  last  to  all  eternity  ! 

186 


SACRED  POEMS  187 

Through  all  creation  let  Thy  Name 
Be  echoed  with  a  glad  acclaim  ! 
That  let  the  grateful  Churches  sing  ; 
With  that  let  heaven  for  ever  ring  ! 

And  we,  where'er  our  lot  is  cast, 
While  life  and  thought  and  feeling  last, 
Through  all  our  years,  in  every  place, 
Will  bless  Thee  for  Thy  boundless  grace  ! 


GILBERT  PARKER 

"LITTLE  GARA1SE" 


.. 


W 


HERE   do  the  stars    grow,   little 

Garaine  ? 
The  garden  of  moons,   is  it  far 


awav? 


The  orchard  of  suns,  my  little  Garaine, 
Will  you  take  us  there  some  day  ?  " 

"  If  you  shut  your  eyes,"  quoth  little  Garaine, 
"  I  will  show  you  the  way  to  go 

To   the   orchard   of  suns   and   the   garden   of 
moons 
And  the  field  where  the  stars  do  grow. 

"  But     you     must     speak     soft,"    quoth     little 
Garaine, 

"And  still  must  your  footsteps  be, 
For  a  great  bear  prowls  in  the  field  of  the  stars, 

And  the  moons  they  have  men  to  see. 

"And  the  suns  have  the  Children   of   Signs 
to  guard, 

And  they  have  no  pity  at  all — 
You  must  not   stumble,  you  must  not  speak, 

When  you  come  to  the  orchard  wall. 

"  The  gates  are  locked,"  quoth  little   Garaine, 

"  But  the  way  I  am  going  to  tell  ! 
The   key  of  your  heart  it  will  open  them  all, 

And  there's  where  the  darlings  dwell  ! ' 

188 


SIR  NOEL  PATON 

u  TIMOR  MORTIS  CONTURBA  T  ME  " 

COULD    I    have    sung    one    Song    that 
should  survive 
The     singer's    voice,      and      in     my 
country's  heart 
Find  loving  echo — evermore  a  part 
Of  all  her  sweetest  memories  ;  could  I  give 
One  great  Thought  to  the  People,  that  should 
prove 
The   spring   of   noble    action   in    their   hour 
Of    darkness,     or    control    their    headlong 
power 
With  the  firm  reins  of  Justice  and  of  Love  ; 
Could   I   have  traced  one   Form   that   should 
express 
The  sacred  mystery  that  underlies 
All  Beauty,  and  through  man's  enraptured 
eyes 
Teach  him  how  beautiful  is  Holiness, — 
I   had   not  feared  thee.      But  to  yield   my 

breath, 
Life's     Purpose     unfulfilled  ! — This     is     thy 
sting,  O  Death  ! 


189 


190     SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

NIGHT  THOUGHTS 

DARKNESS    enfolds     me,    like     the 
sepulchre 
Of    universal    death  ;    like    a    great 
sea — 
Fathomless,  shoreless — the  infinity 
Of  silence  whelms  me  ;  in  my  throbbing  ear 
Surging  tumultuous, — till  I  seem  to  hear 
The  cosmic  thunder,  as  the  systems  wheel 
Afar   their   monstrous  orbits, — even   to   feel 
The  tempest  of  their  waftage.     And  great  fear 
And  tribulation  fall  upon  my  heart 

Lest  haply   man,   despite    his    lofty    dream 
Of  spiritual  life,  be  but  a  part — 

A  ripple  of  the  dead,  insensate  stream 
Of  Force  material,  for  an  instant  tost 
Within  its  vortex — then  for  ever  lost. 

n 

Flitting  between  the  two  eternities — 
Forgotten  Hath-been,  and  unknown  To-be — 
An  atom  lost  in  the  immensity 
Of  Time  and  Space  into  the  dark  abyss 
Still  groping — peering  ;  conscious  but  of  this  : 
That  I  have  missed  the  track  ;  for  track  in 

sooth 
There  is, — nor  all  my  dreams  of  Faith  and 
Truth 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY      191 

But  ignes  fatui — dread  hypothesis  ! — 
Of  mine  own  kindling.     Yet  the  unconscious 
world — 
Frail  atom,  too,  on  the  vast  surge  of  Force 
That  buoys  the  Universe — hath  its  destined 
course, 
Nor  therefrom  swerves.     Am   1  then   blindly 

hurled 
Into  the  void,  to  gasp — and  perish  ?     Nay, 
God  guides  me  also  on  my  perilous  way. 

A   CHRISTMAS  CAROL 

1 

IT  was  the  Christmas  Eve  ; 
The  homeless  wind  did  grieve 
Around      the    desolate    moorland, 
blind  with  snow  ; 
When  at  my  wattle  door — 
Shelter  how  frail  and  poor  ! 
I  heard  the  sound  of  weeping — very  low. 
And  peering  forth  into  the  wild 
And    dreary    night — lo !     on    the    threshold 
stood  a  child. 


His  tiny  feet  were  bare, 
The  snow  was  in  his  hair, 
The   snow  was   on   his   fluttering   raggedness. 


192     SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

"Pity  a  little  one 

Out  in  the  storm  alone/' 
He  feebly  murmured  in  his  sore  distress. 
Within  my  arms  I  gathered  him, 
And    bore    with    soothing   words    into    my 

chamber  dim. 


And  as  I  bore  him  in 
There  came  the  silvery  din 
Of  bells,  far-chiming  through  the  fitful  blore, 
And  from  his  pallid  brow 
A  sweet  light  seemed  to  flow, 
And  from  his  tattered   garment   wintry-frore  ; 
While  from  his  eyes  a  look  there  came 
Of   love   that   thrilled   like   fire   through   all 
my  trembling  frame. 


I  laid  him  on  my  bed, 
And  water  brought  and  bread — 
The  last  scant  remnant  of  my  hermit  fare, — 
Whereof  he  took,  and  slept ; 
While  by  his  side  I  kept 
Dark    vigil,— all    my   spirit    bowed   in    prayer, 
Towards  the  dawning  of  the  morn 
Whereon    our    Blessed   Lord    and   Saviour, 
Christ,  was  born. 


NINETEENTH    CENTURY     193 


But,  hungered  and  a-cold 
Ere  half  my  beads  were  told 
The  gentle  boon  of  sleep  to  me  was  given  ; 
And  in  a  solemn  dream 
I  saw  the  wondrous  gleam 
Of    that    strange    star    high    in    the    eastern 
heaven 
That  led  the  Magi  on  their  way, 
What   time   the   King   of   kings    within   the 
manger  lay  ; 


I  saw  the  angel  throng, 
Heard,  too,  the  heavenly  song 
Beside  the  shepherds  in  the  fields  by  night, 
And  eager  ran  with  them 
To  where  in  Bethlehem 
We  found  the  Holy  Babe  in  swaddlings  white. 
And  kneeling  in  the  sacred  place 
I     saw  —  and     wept     to     see  —  in     His    my 
wanderer's  face  ! 


But  they  were  tears  of  bliss, — 
And  bending  low  to  kiss 
In  loving  awe  the  rosy-tender  feet — 

The  vision  passed  ;  and — strange  ! 
What  means  this  mystic  change 

13 


194     SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

Of  all  that  doth  my  rapt  observance  meet  ? 
A  blazing  Yule-log  on  the  hearth 
Fills  my  late  darksome  cell  with  light  and 
warmth  and  mirth  ! 


8 

Upon  my  table  bare 
A  golden  Chalice  fair 
Shone  brimmed  with   wine  ;  a  golden    Paten 
held 
Bread  broken  ;  a  pale  Rood 
Beside  them  shadowy  stood  ; 
And  from  the  piteous  wounds  the  warm  blood 
welled  .  .  . 
I  turned  to  rouse  my  sleeping  one  ; 
But  vacant    stood     the  bed — and   I  was  all 
alone. 


I  sank  upon  my  knees, 
While  once  more  on  the  breeze 
The  Christmas  bells  came  sounding  joyously  ; 
And  on  a  scroll  o'er  head 
Written  in  light  I  read 
The   legend  :   "  Thou   hast  done  it  unto  ME." 
And  I  forgot  my  sins  and  cares, 
For   then   I    knew  HE  had   been    with   me 
unawares. 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY     195 

10 

And  from  that  hour  to  this 
My  fire  unquenched  is  ; 
By  daily  use  unminished,  on  the  board 
Still  stand  the  bread  and  wine  ; 
And  this  poor  cote  of  mine, 
Still   radiant  from  the  presence  of  The  Lord, 
Is  a  rich  temple,  where  I  bide 
Fearless  His  angel's  summons, — His  what- 
e'er  betide. 


REV.  T.   B.   POLLOCK 

MY  FR1EXDS  IN  PARADISE 

FRIENDS  of  my  childhood,  guardians  of 
my  youth, 
Who  made  my  morn  of  life  so  bright 
and  fair  ; 
In  whom  I  saw  the  loveliness  of  Truth, 
And  learned  to  love  it,  loving  what  ye  were  ; 

In  you  the  forming  of  a  heavenly  hand, 
The  work  of  God's  own  Spirit  I  could  see, 

Preparing  you  for  that  pure,  peaceful  land, 
Where  you  were  going,  ah,  too  soon  for  me  ! 

What  can  the  joy  of  early  days  restore  ? 

Earth  ne'er   can  be   again   what   earth   has 
been  ; 
You  made  life  what  it  was  to  me  before, 

And  dearness  gave  to  each  familiar  scene. 

And  you  are  gone  ;  I  miss  you  day  by  day, 
I  look  around,  and  for  your  comfort  yearn  ; 

But  onward  I  must  tread  my  lonely  way, 
For  you  will  never,  never  more  return. 

Your  looks  of  love  that  used  my  heart  to  cheer 

Shall  never  beam  again  from  mortal   eyes  ; 

Your  voices  speak  not  now  to  mourners  here, 

But  sing  with  happy  saints  beyond  the  skies. 

196 


SACRED  POEMS  197 

Your  fight   is   o'er,  your  work  is  done  below, 
Safe  in  the  waiting  land  you  calmly  rest  ; 

Still  learning  ever  more  and  more  to  know 
With  joy  how  deep  God's  chosen  ones  are 
blest. 

You  cannot  come  to  me,  nor  could  I  dare 
To  wish  you  back  in  this  dark  world  of  pain  ; 

But  I  may  go  to  Paradise,  and  there, 
In  brighter  scenes  enjoy  your  love  again. 

A  little  more  of  waiting  must  be  mine, 

More  work  for  God  to  try  my  faith  and  love  ; 

Then  we  may  meet  where  you  already  shine, 
And  live  together  in  the  homes  above. 

But,   have   I  only   thoughts  of  vanished  days, 
And  hopes  of  meeting  in  the   realms  afar  ? 

Must  I  my  yearning  spirit  never  raise 

To  think  upon  and  love  you  where  you  are  ? 

The  memory  of  love  will  not  avail 
The  craving  of  the  soul  to  satisfy  ; 

Love  must  love  on,  though  sight  and  know- 
ledge fail, 
And  Faith  must  quicken  it,  or  Love  will  die. 

I  did  not  feel,  though  sorrow  bowed  my  head, 
As  each   dear  form  was  laid  with   kindred 
clay, 


198     SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

That  out  of  sight  I  buried  then  my  dead, 
That  heart  and  thought  must  turn  from  you 
away. 

It  cannot  be  ;  my  thoughts,  with  restless  wing, 
Far,  far  from  earth  to  follow  you  will  roam  ; 

My  heart  will  still  its  truest  offering  bring, 
As    when    I   loved   you   in    my   childhoods 
home. 

Though  other  friends  are  dear,  they  yet  are  new, 
And  never  can  be  precious  as  the  old  ; 

The  love  that  clings  so  tenderly  to  you 
Will  not  be  loosened  others  to  enfold. 

And  as  I  feel  with  all  the  joy  of  those 

Who  still  can  greet  me  with  a  friendly  hand  ; 

I  surely  may  desire  the  full  repose 

Of  dearer  friends  who  tread  the  spirit  land. 

Need  I  drive  back  the  instinct  of  my  heart, 
This  impulse  true,  that  nature  makes  me  feel  ? 

Fire  from  its  light  and  warmth  I  may  not  part  ; 
1  cannot  love  you,  and  not  wish  your  weal. 

If  God  can  give  you  more  of  God's  own  light, 
And  draw  you  nearer  to  the  fount  of  joy, 

I  must  desire  that  you  may  reach  the  height 
Where  purest  rapture  may  your  songs 
employ. 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY     199 

But  though  my  lips  have  uttered  not  a  word, 
Has  not  my  soul  looked  up  to  God  in  prayer? 

He    knows   the    love    by   which   my   heart   is 
stirred, 
Each  longing  unexprest  that  rises  there. 

Yes,  I  have  prayed,  although  I  never  knew 
What  meaning  in  my  silent  yearnings  dwelt  ; 

And  God  has  listened  to  the  prayers  for  you 
That  rose  unbidden  from  the  love  I  felt. 

And  am  I  told  that,  when  I  bow  the  knee, 
And  tell  my  wants  to  Him  who  reigns  above 

1  may  remember  many  dear  to  me, 

But  must  forget  the  friends  whom   most   I 
love  ? 

Ah,  never  !  God  is  kinder  far  than  man, 
He  nowhere  tells  me  of  the  heartless  creed 

Of    those  who  threaten  me  with  fiercest   ban 
If  \  should  venture  for  your  souls  to  plead. 

I  ask  not  what  you  need,  I  ask  not  how 
You  may  be  blessed  in  answer  to  my  cry  ; 

I  only  know  you  are  imperfect  now, 

Though  nearer  to  your  full  reward  than    I  : 

And  He  in  whom  alone  we  all  do  live, 
You  in  your  rest,  and  I  who  toil  below, 


200     SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

Who  hears  your  pra\ers  and  mine,  will  wisely 
give 
What  most  we  need  that  we   may   perfect 
grow. 

"SAVIOUR  MOST  LOVING" 

SAVIOUR   most   loving,   bending    before 
Thee, 
Sinful  and  mourning,  Thy  mercy   we 
crave  ; 
Leave  us  not  hopeless,  Lord,  we  implore  Thee, 
Thou  hast  redeemed  us,   O   hear  and  save. 

Fountain,  where  sinners  find  ever  flowing 
Streams  that  wash  all  their  defilement  away, 

To  those  pure  waters  thankfully  going, 
We  would  for  mercy  and  cleansing  pray. 

Gentle  Physician,  mortal  ills  healing, 

Bending  in  love  o'er  each  sin-stricken  soul, 

Come,  all  Thy  care  and  goodness  revealing, 
Strengthen    our    weakness    and     make     us 
whole. 

Shepherd   most   careful,  warn  us  when  stray- 
ing, 
Guide   us   in    paths   where   Thine   own  feet 
have  trod  ; 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY      201 

Led  by  Thy  call,  Thy  dear  voice  obeying, 
Bring  us  in  peace  to  the  fold  of  God. 

Light  where  the  path  is  shadowed  and  dreary> 
Friend  of  the  hearts  that  in  loneliness  pine ; 

Help  of  the  poor,  and  strength  of  the  weary, 
Where  is  the  love  that  is  like  to  Thine  ? 

Lord,    we    would    follow    where    Thou     dost 
call  us, 

Patient  in  sorrow  and  valiant  in  fight ; 
May  we  be  true,  whatever  befall  us, 

Journeying  on  to  the  land  of  light. 

There,  Lord,  with  gladness  laying  before  Thee 
Each  heavy  cross  we  have  carried  so  long  ; 
Crowned  with   Thy  blessing,  we  shall  adore 
Thee 
Singing  for  ever  the  triumph  song. 

Amen 


ADELAIDE  ANNE  PROCTER 

FRIES D  SORROW 


D 


O  not  cheat  thy  Heart  and  tell  her, 
Grief  will  pass  away — 
44  Hope  for  fairer  times  in  future, 
And  forget  to-day." 
Tell  her,  if  you  will,  that  sorrow 

Need  not  come  in  vain  ; 
Tell  her  that  the  lesson  taught  her 
Far  outweighs  the  pain. 

Cheat  her  not  with  the  old  comfort, 

44 Soon  she  will  forget" — 
Bitter  truth,  alas  !  but  matter 

Rather  for  regret ; 
Bid  her  not  "Seek  other  pleasures, 

Turn  to  other  things"  : — 
Rather  nurse  her  caged  sorrow 

Till  the  captive  sings. 

Rather  bid  her  go  forth  bravely, 

And  the  stranger  greet : 
Not  as  foe,  with  shield  and  buckler, 

But  as  dear  friends  meet  ; 
Bid  her  with  a  strong  clasp  hold  her, 

By  her  dusky  wings  ; 
And  she'll  whisper  low  and  gently 

Blessings  that  she  brings. 

202 


SACRED    POEMS  203 

THANKFULNESS 

MY  God,  I  thank  Thee,  Who  hast  made 
The  earth  so  bright, 
So  full  of  splendour  and  of  joy, 
Beauty  and  light ; 
So  many  glorious  things  are  here, 
Noble  and  right. 

I  thank  Thee,  too,  that  Thou  hast  made 

Joy  to  abound  ; 
So  many  gentle  thoughts  and  deeds 

Circling  us  round, 
That  in  the  darkest  spot  of  earth 

Some  love  is  found. 

I  thank  Thee  more  that  all  our  joy 

Is  touched  with  pain  ; 
That  shadows  fall  on  brightest  hours  ; 

That  thorns  remain  : 
So  that  earth's  bliss  may  be  our  guide, 

And  not  our  chain. 

I  thank  Thee,  Lord,  that  Thou  hast  kept 

The  best  in  store  ; 
We  have  enough,  yet  not  too  much 

To  long  for  more  : 
A  yearning  for  a  deeper  peace 

Not  known  before. 


204     SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

I  thank  Thee,  Lord,  that  here  our  souls, 

Though  amply  blest, 
Can  never  find,  although  they  seek, 

A  perfect  rest ; 
Nor  ever  shall,  until  they  lean 

On  Jesus'  breast. 

PER  PACEM  AD  LUC  EM 

I   DO  not  ask,  O  Lord,  that  life  may  be 
A  pleasant  road  ; 
I    do   not    ask   that    Thou    wouldst   take 
from  me 
Aught  of  its  load  ; 

I  do  not  ask  that  flowers  should  always  spring 

Beneath  my  feet ; 
I  know  too  well  the  poison  and  the  sting 

Of  things  too  sweet. 

For  one  thing  only,  Lord,  dear  Lord,   I  plead, 

Lead  me  aright — 
Though    strength    should   falter,   and    though 
heart  should  bleed — 

Through  Peace  to  Light. 


I  do  not  ask,  O  Lord,  that  Thou  shouldst  shed 

Full  radiance  here  ; 
Give  but  a  ray  of  peace,  that  I  may  tread 

Without  a  fear. 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY      203 

I  do  not  ask  my  cross  to  understand, 

My  way  to  see  ; 
Better  in  darkness  just  to  feel  Thy  hand 

And  follow  Thee. 

Joy  is  like  restless  day  ;  but  peace  divine 

Like  quiet  night : 
Lead  me,  O  Lord, — till  perfect  Day  shall  shine, 

Through  Peace  to  Light. 

STRIVE,    WAIT,  AND  PRAY 

STRIVE,  yet  I  do  not  promise 
The  prize  you  dream  of  to-day 
Will     not    fade    when    you    think    to 
grasp  it, 
And  melt  in  your  hand  away  ; 
But  another  and  holier  treasure, 

You  would  now  perchance  disdain, 
Will  come  when  your  toil  is  over, 
And  pay  you  for  all  your  pain. 

Wait  ;  yet  I  do  not  tell  you 

The  hour  you  long  for  now 
Will  not  come  with  its  radiance  vanished. 

And  a  shadow  upon  its  brow  ; 
Yet  far  through  the  misty  future, 

With  a  crown  of  starry  light, 
An  hour  of  joy  you  know  not 

Is  swinging  her  silent  flight 


206     SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

Pray  ;  though  the  gift  you  ask  for 

May  never  comfort  your  fears, 
May  never  repay  your  pleading, 

Yet  pray  and  with  hopeful  tears  ; 
An  answer,  not  that  you  long  for, 

But  diviner,  will  come  one  day  ; 
Your  eyes  are  too  dim  to  see  it, 

Yet  strive,  and  wait,  and  pray. 


A  FIRST  SORROW 


A 


RISE  !  this  day  shall  shine 

For  evermore, 
To  thee  a  star  divine, 
On  Time's  dark  shore. 


Till  now  thy  soul  has  been 

All  glad  and  gay  : 
Bid  it  awake  and  look 

At  grief  to-day  ! 


No  shade  has  come  between 

Thee  and  the  sun  ; 
Like  some  long  childish  dream 

Thy  life  has  run  : 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY      207 

But  now  the  stream  has  reached 

A  dark,  deep  sea, 
And  Sorrow,  dim  and  crowned, 

Is  waiting  thee. 

Each  of  God's  soldiers  bears 

A  sword  divine  : 
Stretch  out  thy  trembling  hands 

To-day  for  thine  ! 

To  each  anointed  Priest 

God's  summons  came  : 
O  Soul,  He  speaks  to-day, 

And  calls  thy  name. 

Then  with  slow,  reverent  step, 

And  beating  heart, 
From  out  thy  joyous  days 

Thou  must  depart. 

And  leaving  all  behind, 

Come  forth  alone, 
To  join  the  chosen  band 

Around  the  throne. 

Raise  up  thine  eyes — be  strong, 

Nor  cast  away 
The  crown  that  God  has  given 

Thy  soul  to-day. 


208     SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

SOWING  AND  REAPING 

SOW  with  a  generous  hand  ; 
Pause  not  for  toil  or  pain  ; 
Weary  not   through  the  heat   of  sum- 
mer, 
Weary  not  through  the  cold  spring  rain  ; 
But  wait  till  the  autumn  comes 
For  the  sheaves  of  golden  grain. 

Scatter  the  seed  and  fear  not, 

A  table  will  be  spread  ; 
What  matter  if  you  are  too  weary 

To  eat  your  hard-earned  bread  ! 
Sow,  while  the  earth  is  broken, 

For  the  hungry  must  be  fed. 

Sow  ; — while  the  seeds  are  lying 
In  the  warm  earths  bosom  deep, 

And  your  warm  tears  fall  upon  it, — 
They  will  stir  in  their  quiet  sleep  ; 

And  the  green  blades  rise  the  quicker. 
Perchance,  for  the  tears  you  weep. 

Then  sow  ; — for  the  hours  are  fleeting, 

And  the  seed  must  fall  to-day  ; 
And  care  not  what  hands  shall  reap  it, 

Or  if  you  shall  have  passed  away 
Before  the  waving  cornfields 

Shall  gladden  the  sunny  day. 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY      209 

Sow  ;  and  look  onward,  upward. 
Where  the  starry  light  appears, — 

Where,  in  spite  of  the  coward's  doubting, 
Or  your  own  heart's  trembling  fears, 

You  shall  reap  in  joy  the  harvest 
You  have  sown  to-dav  in  tears. 


THE  PEACE  OF  GOD 

WE  ask  for  Peace,  O  Lord  ! 
Thy  children  ask  Thy  Peace  ; 
Not  what  the  world  calls  rest, 
That  toil  and  care  should  cease, 
That  through  bright  sunny  hours 

Calm  Life  should  fleet  away, 
And  tranquil  night  should  fade 
In  smiling  day  ; — 

It    is    not   for   such    Peace   that    we  would 
pray. 

We  ask  for  Peace,  O  Lord  ! 

Yet  not  to  stand  secure, 
Girt  round  with  iron  Pride, 

Contented  to  endure  : 
Crushing  the  gentle  strings 

That  human  hearts  should  know, 
Untouched  by  others'  joy 

Or  others'  woe  ; — 

Thou,  O  dear  Lord,  wilt  never  teach  us  so. 

14 


210     SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

We  ask  Thy  Peace,  O  Lord  ! 

Through  storm,  and  fear,  and  strife, 
To  light  and  guide  us  on, 

Through  a  long,  struggling  life  : 
While  no  success  or  gain 

Shall  cheer  the  desperate  fight, 
Or  nerve,  what  the  world  calls 

Our  wasted  might : — 

Yet  pressing  through   the   darkness  to   the 
light. 

It  is  Thine  own,  O  Lord, 

Who  toil  while  others  sleep  ; 
Who  sow  with  loving  care 

What  other  hands  shall  reap. 
They  lean  on  Thee  entranced, 

In  calm  and  perfect  rest  : 
Give  us  that  Peace,  O  Lord, 

Divine  and  blest, 

Thou  keepest  for  those  hearts  who  love  Thee 
best. 

IF  THOU  COULDST  KNOW 

I   THINK  if  thou  couldst  know, 
O  soul  that  will  complain 
What  lies  concealed  below 
Our  burden  and  our  pain  ; 
How  just  our  anguish  brings 
Nearer  those  longed-for  things 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY      211 

We  seek  for  now  in  vain, — 
I    think   thou    wouldst  rejoice,   and  not   com- 
plain. 

I  think  if  thou  couldst  see, 

With  thy  dim  mortal  sight, 
How  meanings,  dark  to  thee, 

Are  shadows  hiding  light  ; 
Truth's  efforts  crossed  and  vexed, 
Life's  purpose  all  perplexed, — 
If  thou  couldst  see  them  right, 
I  think  that   they  would   seem  all   clear   and 
wise,  and  bright. 

And  yet  thou  canst  not  know, 

And  yet  thou  canst  not  see  ; 
Wisdom  and  sight  are  slow 

In  poor  humanity. 
If  thou  couldst  trust,  poor  soul, 
In  Him  who  rules  the  whole, 
Thou  wouldst  find  peace  and  rest : 
Wisdom  and  sight  are  well  but  Trust  is  best. 


REV.  H.  I.  D.  RYDER 

AN1M&  F1DEL1UM 

NO  brightness  of  the  sky 
To  tell  us  where  they  lie  ; 
The  winds  that  winnow  by 
Make  no  report ; 


Their  cradle  and  their  bier 
The  earth,  says,  "They  were  here. 
But  now  no  more  appear 
In  their  resort." 


Their  footprints  all  around 
Yet  make  it  holy  ground  ; 
The  way  they  went,  the  sound 
Has  died  away. 

The  words  which  they  have  writ 
Of  pathos  or  of  wit 
The  paper  may  not  quit, 
But  where  are  they  ? 

Ah  !  vainly  still  we  ask  : 
It  is  not  nature's  task 
To  tear  away  the  mask 
Where  God  is  hid. 

212 


SACRED  POEMS  213 

Go  bow  your  troubled  face 
Closer  in  God's  embrace, 
And  let  His  love  displace 
All  fears  forbid. 

Your  loved  ones  are  not  gone, 
Live  but  for  God  alone, 
And  you  shall  find  your  own 
Upon  His  breast. 

Safe  in  the  inner  shrine 
Within  the  arms  divine  ; 
They  are  not  grown  less  thine 
Because  more  blest. 


DREAM-LOSS 

WHO    has    not    dreamed    of    lonely 
wandering 
Through  darkling  paths  of  woods 
that  never  end, 
How  there  will  meet  you  suddenly  a  friend 
To   whom   if   but   your    lifeless   hands    might 

cling, 
Your  way  would  be  no  more  companionless ; 
But  he  regards  you  not,  and  passes  on  ; 
And  lo,  another,  while  you  turn,  is  gone 
Past  you  not  knowing,  and  the  loneliness 


214  SACRED  POEMS 

Grows  deeper,  as  anon  a  happy  band 

You  once  were  one  of  pass  in  converse  sweet  ; 

The     sounds     caress    you     of     their     accents 

bland, 
Then    die    away,   mocking    your    spell-bound 

feet  ; 
Faint  image  of  the  loss  awaiting  one 
Whose  friends  are  friends  of  God,  whilst  he 

is  none. 


HORACE  SMITH 

HYMN  OF  THE  FLOWERS 

DAY   Stars !    that    ope    your    frownless 
eyes  to  twinkle 
From    rainbow    galaxies     of    Earths 
creation, 
And  dewdrops  on  her  lonely  altars  sprinkle 
As  a  libation  : 

Ye  Matin  Worshippers  !  who,  bending  lowly 
Before  the  uprisen  Sun,  God's  lidless  eye, 
Throw  from  your  chalices  a  sweet  and  holy 
Incense  on  high  : 

Ye  bright  Mosaics  !  that  with  storied  beauty 
The  floor  of  Nature's  temple  tesselate  : 
What  numerous  emblems  of   instructive  duty 
Your  forms  create  ! 

'Neath   cloistered  boughs  each  floral  bell  that 

swingeth 
And  tolls  its  perfume  on  the  passing  air 
Makes  Sabbath  in  the  fields,  and  ever  ringeth 
A  call  to  prayer  : 

Not  to  the  domes  where  crumbling  arch  and 

column 
Attest  the  feebleness  of  mortal  hand, 
But  to  that  fane  most  catholic  and  solemn 

Which  God  hath  plann'd, — 

215 


216     SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

To  that  cathedral,  boundless  as  our  wonder, 
Whose  quenchless   lamps  the  sun  and   moon 

supply, 
Its    choir    the    winds    and    waves,    its    organ 

thunder, 

Its  dome  the  sky. 

There,  as  in  solitude  and  shade  I  wander 
Through    the  green   aisles  or  stretch'd   upon 

the  sod, 
Awed  by  the  silence,  reverently  ponder 
The  ways  of  God, 

Your    voiceless    lips,   O    Flowers  !    are   living 

preachers, 
Each  cup  a  pulpit  and  each  ieaf  a  book, 
Supplying  to  my  fancy  numerous  teachers 
From  loneliest  nook. 

Floral  Apostles  !  that  in  dewy  splendour 

"  Weep    without    woe    and    blush   without    a 

crime  "  : 
Oh,  may  I  deeply  learn,  and  ne'er  surrender 
Your  love  sublime  ! 

"  Thou  wast  not,  Solomon  !  in  all  thy  glory 
Array'd,"  the  lilies  cry,  "  in  robes  like  ours  : 
How  vain   your  grandeur  !   ah  how  transitory 
Are  human  flowers  ! n 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY      217 

In     the     sweet-scented     pictures,      Heavenly 
Artist  ! 

With    which    Thou    paintest    Natures    wide- 
spread hall, 

What  a  delightful  lesson  Thou  impartest 
Of  love  to  all  ! 

Not   useless  are    ye,    Flowers  !   though    made 

for  pleasure  ; 
Blooming  o'er  field  and  wave,  by  day  or  night, 
From   every    source    your    sanction    bids  me 

treasure 

Harmless  delight. 

Ephemeral  Sages  !  what  instructors  hoary 
For  such   a  world  of  thought    could  furnish 

scope  ? 
Each  fading  calyx  a  memento  mon\ 
Yet  fount  of  hope  ! 

Posthumous  Glories  !  angel-like  collection, 
Upraised  from  seed  or  bulb  interrd  in  earth  : 
Ye  are  to  me  a  type  of  resurrection 
And  second  birth. 

Were  I  in  churchless  solitudes  remaining, 
Far  from  all  voice  of  teachers  or  divines, 
My    soul     would    find    in    flowers,    of    God's 
ordaining, 

Priests,  sermons,  shrines. 


ELLIOT  STOCK 

THE  IMPRISONED  SOUL 

I   PASSED  along  a  narrow  noisy  street, 
Where,  just  above  the  hurrying  crowds, 
there  hung 
A  lark  encaged,  that  yet  right  nobly  sung, 
With  quivering  wing  and  ever  restless  feet, 
A  heaven-born   song  towards  the  far-off  stars. 
But,  ill  expressing  all  his  heart  did  mean, 
Impatiently  he  spurned  his  patch  of  green, 
And  beat  his  swelling  breast  against  the  bars. 
Here,  said  I,  is  a  spring  of  worship,  pent 
Within  a  faithful  heart,  by  sad  mischance, 
That,  prisoned   close   through    sordid  circum- 
stance, 
Must   needs  well  up  and  find  its  heavenward 

vent. 
The   heaven-born  soul  e'en  while  engaged  on 

earth, 
Oft  carols  forth  in  songs  of  heavenly  mirth. 

THE  SOULS  FREEDOM 

I   WANDERED  o'er  a  breezy  upland  heath, 
'Mid  incense  of  a  myriad  flowers  in  June: 
Where    golden    gorse    unfolded    to    the 
noon, 
And    sloped    to    where   the   sea   crawled    far 
beneath  ; 

21S 


SACRED    POEMS  219 

Above  the  undertone  of  minor  birds, 
The  larks  held  high  their  revelry  of  joy, 
And  filled  the  air  with  one  sublime  envoy 
Of  praise,  that  rose  to  where  the  blue  engirds 
The  throne  ;  and,  mounting  in  untiring  flight, 
They  seemed  to  rise  and  sing,  and  poise  above 
In  thrilling  ecstasy  of  unpent  love, 
Bathed  in  the  balm  of  God's  eternal  light. 
Here,  said  I,  surely  is  the  gate  of  heaven  : 
And  these  the  new-found  songs  of  souls  for 
given. 


RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD 

BRAHMA'S  ASSWER 

ONCE,  when  the  days  were  ages. 
And  the  old  Earth  was  young, 
The  high  Gods  and  the  sages 
From  Nature's  golden  pages 
Her  open  secrets  wrung. 
Each  questional  each  to  know 
Whence  came  the  Heavens  above,  and  whence 
the  Earth  below. 

Indra,  the  endless  giver 
Of  every  gracious  thing 
The  Gods  to  him  deliver, 
Whose  bounty  is  the  river 
Of  which  they  are  the  spring, — 
Indra,  with  anxious  heart, 
Ventures   with   Vivochunu   where   Brahma  is 
apart. 

44  Brahma  !  Supremest  Being  ! 
By  whom  the  worlds  are  made, — 
Where  we  are  blind,  all-seeing, — 
Stable,  where  we  are  fleeing, 
Of  Life  and  Death  afraid, — 
Instruct  us,  for  mankind, 
What   is    the    body,    Brahma  ?      O    Brahma  ! 

what  the  mind  ?" 

230 


SACRED  POEMS  221 

Hearing  as  though  he  heard  not, 
So  perfect  was  his  rest, 
So  vast  the  Soul  that  err'd  not, 
So  wise  the  lips  that  stirr'd  not, — 
His  hand  upon  his  breast 
He  laid,  whereat  his  face 
Was  mirror'd  in  the  river  that  girt  that  holy 
place. 

They  question'd  each  the  other 
What  Brahma's  answer  meant. 
Said  Vivochunu — M  Brother  ! 
Through  Brahma  the  Great  Mother 
Hath  spoken  her  intent : 
Man  ends  as  he  began, — 
The  shadow  on   the   water  is  all  there  is  of 
Man." 

14  The  Earth  with  woe  is  cumber'd, 
And  no  man  understands  ; 
They  see  their  days  are  number'd 
By  One  that  never  slumber'd 
Nor  stay'd  His  dreadful  hands. 
I  see  with  Brahma's  eyes  : 
The  body  is  the   shadow  that   on   the  water 
ies. 

Thus  Indra,  looking  deeper, 
With  Brahma's  self  possessed. 
So  dry  thine  eyes,  thou  weeper  ! 


222  SACRED  POEMS 

And  rise  again,  thou  sleeper  ! 
The  hand  on  Brahma's  breast 
Is  his  divine  assent 
Covering  the  soul  that  dies  not.     This  is  what 
Brahma  meant. 


LORD   DE  TABLEY 

THE  SA1ST  ASD   THE  SUN 

I  HEARD  a  Saint  cry  to  the  Sun — "  Be  dim. 
Why   shouldst   thou   rule   on   high   with 
boastful  ray, 
Till  fools  adore  thee  as  the  God  of  Day, 
Robbing  thy  Master's   honour  due  to  Him?v 
But  the  sun-spirit,  thro'  each  radiant  limb 
Translucent  as  a  living  ember  coal, 
Glowed.     At  the  anger  of  the  seraph  soul 
His  golden  orb  trembled  from  boss  to  rim. 

Then  made  he  answer  as  a  dove  that  sings, 
44  God's  glory  is  my  glory,  and  my  praise 
Only   His   praising.     They,  who   kneel  to  me, 
See  thro'  the  waving  of  my  orient  wings 
A  choir  of  stars  with  voices  like  the  sea, 
Singing  hosanna  in  the  heavenly  ways." 


223 


ALFRED,   LORD  TENNYSON 

IMMORTAL  LOVE 

STRONG  Son  of  God,  immortal  Love, 
Whom   we,   that   have   not   seen   Thy 
face, 
By  faith,  and  faith  alone,  embrace, 
Believing  where  we  cannot  prove  ; 

Thine  are  these  orbs  of  light  and  shade  ; 

Thou  madest  Life  in  man  and  brute  ; 

Thou  madest  Death  ;  and  lo,  Thy  foot 
Is  on  the  skull  which  Thou  hast  made. 

Thou  wilt  not  leave  us  in  the  dust : 
Thou  madest  man,  he  knows  not  whyt 
He  thinks  he  was  not  made  to  die  ; 

And  Thou  hast  made  him  :  Thou  art  just. 

Thou  seemest  human  and  divine. 

The  highest,  holiest  manhood,  Thou  : 
Our  wills  are  ours,  we  know  not  how  ; 

Our  wills  are  ours,  to  make  them  Thine. 

Our  little  systems  have  their  day  ; 
They  have  their  day  and  cease  to  be : 
They  are  but  broken  lights  of  Thee, 

And  thou,  O  Lord,  art  more  than  they. 

224 


SACRED  POEMS  225 

We  have  but  faith  :  we  cannot  know  ; 

For  knowledge  is  of  things  we  see  ; 

And  yet  we  trust  it  comes  from  Thee, 
A  beam  in  darkness  :  let  it  grow. 

Let  knowledge  grow  from  more  to  more, 
But  more  of  reverence  in  us  dwell  ; 
That  mind  and  soul,  according  well, 

May  make  one  music  as  before, 

But  vaster.     We  are  fools  and  slight ; 
We  mock  Thee  when  we  do  not  fear  7 
But  help  Thy  foolish  ones  to  bear  ; 

Help  Thy  vain  worlds  to  bear  Thy  light. 


15 


RICHARD  CHENEVIX  TRENCH 

THE  KINGDOM  OF  GOD 


I 


SAY  to  thee,  do  thou  repeat 
To  the  first  man  thou  mayest  meet 
In  lane,  highway,  or  open  street*— 


That  he  and  we  and  all  men  move 

Under  a  canopy  of  love 

As  broad  as  the  blue  sky  above  ; 

That  doubt  and  trouble,  fear  and  pain 
And  anguish,  all  are  shadows  vain, 
That  death  itself  shall  not  remain  ; 

That  weary  deserts  we  may  tread, 
A  dreary  labyrinth  may  thread, 
Through  dark  ways  underground  be  led  ; 

Yet,  if  we  will  one  Guide  obey, 
The  dreariest  path,  the  darkest  way 
Shall  issue  out  in  heavenly  day  ; 

And  we,  on  divers  shores  now  cast, 
Shall  meet,  our  perilous  voyage  past, 
All  in  our  Father's  house  at  last. 

And,  ere  thou  leave  him,  say  thou  this. 
Yet  one  word  more — they  only  miss 
The  winning  of  that  final  bliss 

226 


SACRED  POEMS  227 

Who  will  not  count  it  true,  that  Love, 
Blessing,  not  cursing,  rules  above, 
And  that  in  it  we  live  and  move. 

And  one  thing  further  make  him  know, 
That  to  believe  these  things  are  so, 
This  firm  faith  never  to  forego, 

Despite  of  all  which  seems  at  strife 
With  blessing,  all  with  curses  rife, 
That  this  is  blessing,  this  is  life. 


LORD,  MANY  TIMES   1  AM   AWEARY 
QUITE 

LORD,  many  times  I  am  aweary  quite 
Of    mine     own     self,     my     sin,     my 
vanity — 
Yet  be  not  Thou,  or  I  am  lost  outright, 
Weary  of  me. 

And  hate  against  myself  I  often  bear, 

And  enter  with  myself  in  fierce  debate  : 
Take    Thou    my    part    against    myself,    nor 
share 

In  that  just  hate. 


228     SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

Best  friends  might  loathe  us,  if  what  things 
perverse 
We  know  of  our  own  selves,  they  also  know  : 
Lord,  Holy  One  !  if  Thou  who  knowest  worse 
Shouldst  loathe  us  too  ! 


STRENGTH  IN  PRAYER 

LORD,   what  a   change    within    us    one 
short  hour 
Spent  in  thy  presence  will  prevail  to 
make, 
What  heavy  burdens  from  our  bosoms  take, 
What    parched    grounds    refresh,    as    with    a 

shower  ! 
We  kneel,  and  all  around  us  seems  to  lower  ; 
We  rise,  and  all,  the  distant  and  the  near, 
Stands    forth    in    sunny    outline,    brave    and 

clear  ; 
We    kneel    how    weak,    we    rise    how    full    of 

power. 
Why,  therefore,   should   we  do  ourselves  this 

wrong, 
Or  others — that  we  are  not  always  strong, 
That  we  are  ever  overborne  with  care, 
That  we  should  ever  weak  or  heartless  be, 
Anxious  or  troubled,  when  with  us  is  prayer, 
And   joy  and  strength  and  courage  are  with 

Thee  ? 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY     229 
THANKFUL  LOVE 

SOME  murmur  when  their  sky  is  clear 
And  wholly  bright  to  view, 
If  one  small  speck  of  dark  appear 
In  their  great  heaven  of  blue  : 
And  some  with  thankful  love  are  filled 

If  but  one  streak  of  light, 
One  ray  of  God's  good  mercy,  gild 
The  darkness  of  their  night. 

In  palaces  are  hearts  that  ask, 

In  discontent  and  pride, 
Why  life  is  such  a  dreary  task, 

And  all  good  things  denied. 
And  hearts  in  poorest  huts  admire 

How  Love  has  in  their  aid, 
Love  that  not  ever  seems  to  tire, 

Such  rich  provision  made. 


AUBREY    DE    VERE 

THE  AGNOSTICS  QUESTION 

WHAT    art    thou,    Life  ?     For    some 
there  are  that  ask, 
"  Is  Life  worth  living  ?  "     Are  we 

come  to  this, 
Heroic  centuries  past  of  bale  or  bliss, 
The  Poet's  song,  and  Patriot's  solemn  task  ? 
The  Pagan's  heart  itself  was  free  to  bask 
At  least  in  Nature's  joy — the  laugh — the  kiss — 
Life  ran,  a  bright  wine  from  an  honest  cask ; 
Hope  sped  her  arrow  gaily,  hit  or  miss. 
Sublimer  ages  followed  :  Truth  was  known  : 
Faith   ruled.     But   Love  grew  weak   by   slow 

decay  : 
O'er  blackening  ocean  rushed  a  tempest  blind  : 
What  wonder  if  a  ship  with  mast  o'erblown 
Dragged  at  its  side,  more  slowly  drifts  this  day 
Than   skiffs  that  ne'er  spread   canvas  to  the 

wind? 


4k 


IS  LIFE  WORTH  LIVING?" 

LIFE    is    a    thing    worth    living    to    the 
brave 
Who     fear    not     Fortune's     spite,    in 
Truth  who  trust ; 
Whose  spirit,  not  thralled  by  pride  or  earth- 
ward lust, 

230 


SACRED  POEMS  231 

Stands  up  while  mortal  tumults  round  them 

rave 
Like  Teneriffe  above  the  ocean  wave  ; 
Who,  mailed  in  Duty,  with  divine  disgust 
Recoil  from  frivolous  joys  and  aims  unjust, 
Nor   miss   rewards   which    Reason    scorns    to 

crave. 
Life  is  worth  living  to  those  souls  of  light 
Who  live  for  others  and  by  gift  bestow 
On   them   the  jubilant  beams  their    own    by 

right  ; 
Who,  knowing  Life's  defects,  more  inly  know 
This  Life  is  not  the  Temple  but  the  Gate 
Where    men    secure   of   entrance    watch    and 

wait. 
An  altar  I  would  rear  beside  the  Rhine, 
And  by  the  Arno,  and  the  Adrian  Sea, 
For  there,  O  Friends  beloved,  one  home  had 

we, 
And  thence,  O  Friends  beloved  and  ever  mine, 
We  ranged  together.     Alp  and  Apennine 
Henceforth     are     rich     in     household     nooks 

to  me, 
Nor  wholly  solitary  can  I  be 
Whether  the  Palm  my  tent  I  make,  or  Pine. 
How  large  a  portion  of  earth's  populous  ball 
Have   you   to   me    endeared  !    Therefore    less 

keen 
Sorrow    one    day    shall    prove,    or    Fortune's 

spleen, 


232     SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

Or  all  the  ills  that  lonely  age  befall. 
Ah  yes  ; — and  yet,  had  I  been  worthier,  all 
Which   was  so   dear  still   dearer  might   have 
been. 


QUEEN  BERTHA'S  MATIN  SONG 

THE  morning  star  was  rising, 
O'er  ocean's  tremulous  crystal  hung  ; 
His  bright  feet  touched  the  billow, 
His  glance  o'er  earth  he  flung  ; 
On  the  young  Queen  he  played, 
Yet  warm  and  disarrayed, 

As,  leaping  lightly  from  her  pillow, 
The  golden  harp  she  swayed. 
Hide  not  the  clouds  among, 
Brightest  star,  and  fairest ! 
Until  her  song  those  heavens  along 
Between  thy  wings  thou  bearest. 

"Thou  that  on  my  dreams 

All  night  long  wert  beaming, 
Oer  shining  leaves  and  silver  streams 

Brighter  now  art  gleaming  ; 
Every  fountain  hath 

Light  thy  keen  smiles  give  her ; 
In  every  bay-leaf's  dewy  bath 

Thy  soft  swift  glances  quiver." 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY     233 

Hide  not  the  clouds  among, 

Brightest  star  and  fairest ! 
Until  her  song  those  heavens  along 

Between  thy  wings  thou  bearest. 

M  Heaven  doth  laugh  above, 

Earth  below  is  gay, 
And  souls  that  walk  'twixt  light  and  love 

Shall  walk  in  joy  alway, 
White  as  yon  lily  sweet, 

That  springs,  while  cold  airs  fan  it, 
A  virgin  spouse  her  mate  to  greet 
In  thee,  glad  matin  Planet ! " 
Hide  not  the  clouds  among 
Brightest  star  and  fairest ! 
Until  her  song  those  heavens  along 
Between  thy  wings  thou  bearest. 

"  All  the  starry  hosts 

And  all  the  angelic  band 
At  once  o'er  all  the  ethereal  coasts 
Leaped  forth  at  God's  command  ; 
But  surely  from  afar 

Twas  thee  men  saw  on  high, 
When  darkness  fled  before  the  star 
Of  Christ's  Nativity." 

Hide  not  the  clouds  among, 
Brightest  star  and  fairest ! 
Until  her  song  those  heavens  along 
Between  thy  wings  thou  bearest. 


234     SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

"When  the  earth  was  made 

Stars  and  angels  sang  ; 
When  Christ  was  in  the  manger  laid 

More  loud  the  anthem  rang  ; 
But  louder  yet  those  choirs 

The  last  great  morn  shall  blend 
Their  heavenly  songs  and  heavenly  fires, 
While  thou  dost  last  ascend." 
Hide  not  the  clouds  among, 
Brightest  star  and  fairest ! 
Until  her  song  those  heavens  along 
Between  thy  wings  thou  bearest. 


THE  QUEEN'S   VESPERS 

HALF  kneeling  yet,  and  half  reclining, 
She    held    her     harp     against     her 
knees  : 
Aloft  the  roofs  were  shining 

And  sunset  touched  the  trees. 
From  the  gold  border  gleamed  like  snow 
Her  foot  :  a  crown  enriched  her  brow  : 
Dark  gems  confined  that  crimson  vest 
Close-moulded  on  her  neck  and  breast. 

In  silence  lay  the  cloistral  court 

And  shadows  of  the  convent  towers 
Well  ordered  now  in  stately  sort 
Those  roval  halls  and  bowers. 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY     235 

The  choral  chaunt  had  just  swept  by — 
Bright  arms  lay  quivering  yet  on  high  : 
Thereon  the  warriors  gazed,  and  then 
Glanced  lightly  at  the  Queen  again. 

While  from  her  lip  the  wild  hymn  floated 

Such  grace  in  those  uplifted  eyes 
And  sweet,  half  absent  looks,  they  noted 

That,  surely,  through  the  skies 
A  Spirit,  they  deemed  flew  forward  ever 
Above  that  song's  perpetual  river. 
And,  smiling  from  its  joyous  track 
Upon  her  heavenly  face  looked  back. 

THE  QUEEN'S  VIGIL 

BENEATH  and  round  her  queenly  bower 
So  tall  the  garden  pageants  grew 
With     every     breeze     each     moon-lit 
flower 
Was  waved  the  casement  through  : 
White  in  the  radiance  glanced  the  fawn  ; 
Flitted  the  hare  from  lawn  to  lawn 
By  close,  broad  firs,  that  flecked  the  sheen, 
And  barred  with  black  and  silver  green. 

Far  off,  like  mighty  cliffs,  their  shade 
Over  a  waste  of  waves  that  cast 

The  castle  walls  o'er  wood  and  glade 
Flung  down  their  darkness  vast. 


236     SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

Answering  a  monarch's  joyous  call, 
Far  realms  were  met  in  festival  : 
There  flocked  the  noble  and  the  fair — 
The  fairest,  noblest  was  not  there. 

And  yet  for  her  no  flowers  were  blowing  ; 

No  listening  dell  or  vale  profound 
Enjoyed  her  breath  :  for  her  was  flowing 

Nor  glassy  stream,  nor  stream  of  sound  : 
In  vain  her  song  the  night-bird  squandered, 
The  winds  that  through  her  chamber  wandered 
And  o'er  her  pillow  brushed  serene 
But  found  the  place  where  she  had  been  ! 

The  Moon  whose  glory  swelled  with  light 

Each  lilied  slope  and  laurelled  mound 
With  touch  more  sharp  and  exquisite 

Defined  one  rock  cross-crowned. 
Like  argent  flames  or  spires  of  frost 
Uprose  that  shape  of  stone,  embossed 
With  breeze-worn  sculptures  quaint  and  mild 
Of  Maid  and  Angel,  King  and  Child. 

There  on  her  knees  the  Queen  was  praying  : 

On  that  cold  marble  leaned  her  breast ; 
Prayer  after  prayer  devoutly  saying 

With  palms  together  pressed. 
There  for  her  lord  she  prayed  aloud, 
Prayed  for  her  people,  blind  and  proud — 
That  Heaven  would  chase  away  their  night, 
That  God  would  bathe  his  heart  in  light ! 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY     237 

THE  QUEERS  ALMS 

GLAD  as  that  thrill  some  princely  birth 
With   hushed  yet  rapturous  omen 
gracing 
The  stir  as  from  her  palace  forth 

The  young  fair  Queen  came  pacing  : 
But  here  no  pompous  guard  was  set ; 

No  flattering  concourse  flocked  around  : 
The  poor  about  her  gate  were  met : 
The  readiest  place  the  poorest  found. 

Like  youthful  angels  all  alert 

That  Queen  dispensed  her  bounteous  load  ; 
On  those  whom  keenest  fates  had  hurt 

Her  earliest  gifts  bestowed. 
Her  face  the  maniac's  rage  beguiled  ; 

She  turned  her  now  among  the  ring 
And  paused,  above  a  poor  blind  child 

The  sweetest  of  her  songs  to  sing  ; 

Kind  gifts  to  some,  kind  words  to  more, 

Kind  looks  to  each  and  all  she  gave, 
Which  on  with  them  through  life  they  bore 

And  down  into  their  grave. 
Around  her  feet  the  children  crept 

And  kissed  the  grass  those  feet  had  trod  ; 
Sad  eyes  that  many  a  year  had  wept 

With  tears  of  gladness  gemmed  the  sod. 


238  SACRED  POEMS 

The  chiming  of  the  convent  bells 

Called  her  at  last  away  to  prayer  : 
Farewell  she  smiled  on  their  farewells — 

And  turned  ;  when,  unaware, 
An  old  grey  man  with  hands  outspread 

She  marked  low-bent  on  quivering  knee  : 
Over  his  brow  she  stooped  and  said, 

"A  kiss  is  all  I  have  for  thee." 


REV.  JOSEPH  BLANCO  WHITE 

SIGHT  Ai\D  DEATH 

MYSTERIOUS  Night,    when    our  first 
parent  knew 
Thee    by  report    Divine,  and  heard 
thy  name, 
Did  he  not  tremble  for  this  goodly  frame, 
This  glorious  canopy  of  light  and  blue  ? 
But  through  a  curtain  of  translucent  dew, 
Hesperus  with  the  host  of  heaven  came, 
Bathed     in     the    hues    of    the    great    setting 

flame, 
And  lo  !  Creation  broadened  to  man's  view. 
Who  could   have  guessed   such   darkness 

lay  concealed 
Within     thy    beams,     O     Sun,     or    who 

divined, 
When    flower,    and    leaf,   and    insect  lay 

revealed, 
Thou     to     such     countless    worlds    hadst 

made  us  blind? 
Why    should   we    then    shun    death   with 

anxious  strife  ? 
If    Light    could    thus    deceive,    wherefore 
not  Life  ? 

Coleridge  wrote  of  this  as  "the  finest  and  most  grandly 
conceived  sonnet  in  our  language,"  and  Leigh  Hunt  says  : 
"In  point  of  thought,  this  sonnet  stands  supreme,  perhaps 
above  all  in  any  language.  Nor  can  we  ever  ponder  it  too 
deeply,  or  with  too  thoughtful  a  reverence." 

239 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

LA  T1TUD1KAR1AMSM 

YET    Truth    is   keenly   sought   for,   and 
the  wind 
Charged  with   rich  words  poured  out 
in  thought's  defence  ; 
Whether  the  Church  inspire  that  eloquence, 
Or  a  Platonic  Piety  confined 
To  the  sole  temple  of  the  inward  mind  ; 
And  One  there  is  who   builds  immortal  lays, 
Though  doomed  to  tread  in  solitary  ways, 
Darkness  before  and  danger's  voice  behind  ; 
Yet  not  alone,  nor  helpless  to  repel 
Sad     thoughts  ;    for    from    above    the    starry 

sphere 
Come  secrets,  whispered  nightly  to  his  ear  ; 
And  the  pure  spirit  of  celestial  light 
Shines  through   his  soul — "that  he   may   see 

and  tell 
Of  things  invisible  to  mortal  sight." 


240 


ANONYMOUS 

THE  TH1SKER  AND  THE  DOER 

ONE  sits  at  home,  with  pale,  impassive 
brow, 
Bent    on    the    eloquence    of    lifeless 
letters ; 
Noting     man's    thoughts    from     Mind's    first 
dawn,  till  now, 
When    Truth    seems,    Heaven-inspired,    to 
burst  her  fetters. 

Another  plies  the  force  of  stalwart  limbs, 
And    keen   wit   sharpened    by  the  whirl   of 
action  ; 
For  midnight  lore  no  studious  lamp  he  trims, 
Curtain'd  and  muffled  from  the  world's  dis- 
traction. 

Two  destinies — converging  to  one  end, 
The  glorious  issue  of  all  human  labour  ; 

Where  in  harmonious  union  softly  blend 
The  praise  of  God,  the  profit  of  our  neigh- 
bour. 

Each  has  his  gift— the  stamp  affix'd   at  birth, 
That     marks    him     tor    the    servant    of    a 
Master, 
The  chosen  Steward  of   His  realm  of   Earth, 
The  shepherd  watching  for  a  higher  Pastor. 

16  241 


242     SACRED  POEMS  OF  THE 

Each  has  his  crown — of   earthly  laurels  here, 
Gather' d    and     woven     by     the     hand     of 
mortals  ; 
And  when  the  Spirit-City's  towers  appear, 
Dropped    on    his    brows    by    angels    at     its 
portals. 

Judge    not   which   serves    his   mighty    Master 
best, 
Haply   thou    mightest   be    true   worth's   de- 
tractor ; 
For  each  obeys  his  Nature's  high  behest, — 
The  close-pent  thinker  and  the  busy  actor. 


THE  PA  TH  OF  FAITH 

PERCHANCE  thou  deemest  it  is  hard 
To  have  no  foresight  of  thy  life, 
Unwarned,  thy  doubtful   feet  to  guard 
From  wandering  in  the  paths  of  strife  ; 
But  though  thou  hast  no  prescient  sense, 
Thou  hast  a  watching  Providence. 

With  trustful  labour  weave  the  web 
Of  high  emprise  and  noble  deed  ; 

Heedless  if  life  should  flow  or  ebb, 
Let  bravely  doing  be  thy  creed  ; 

That  Faith  will  make  thee  happier  far 

Than  if  thou  read'st  each  glistening  star. 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY     243 

Should  stormy  fortune  lurk  behind 

Thy  curtain'd  Fate,  and  darkly  loom — 

Thank  God  thou  canst  not  feel  the  wind, 
Nor  hear  the  distant  thunder  boom  ; 

The  tempest,  with  soft  breezes  blent, 

May,  ere  it  reaches  thee,  be  spent. 

Should  brilliant  sunshine  bursting  there 
Upon  thee,  sudden  and  sublime, 

Instant  reflection  of  its  glare 
Might  haply  blind  thee  for  the  time, 

By  pouring  on  thy  dazzled  sight 

Rays  of  intolerable  light  ; 

But  Faith  will  nerve  thee  for  the  fight 
Against  misfortune's  darkening  power  ; 

And  flood  thy  road  with  tempered  light, 
Until  thou  reach,  in  Heaven,  that  hour 

When  Prescience  shall  be  thine  at  will — 

Prescience  of  good  unmixed  with  ill. 


THE  GROWTH  OF  GOOD 


F 


AR  where  the  smooth  Pacific  swells, 
Beneath  an  arch  of  blue, 
Where  sky  and  wave  together  meet, 
A  coral  reeflet  grew. 


244     SACRED   POEMS  OF  THE 

No  mortal  eye  espied  it  there, 
Nor  sea-bird  poised  on  high  ; 

Lonely  it  sprang,  and  lonely  grew, 
The  nursling  of  the  sky. 

With  soft-caressing  touch,  the  wind 
In  summer  round  it  play'd  ; 

And  murmuring  through  its  tiny  caves, 
Unceasing  music  made. 

The  ministering  wind,  so  sweet 
With  mountain  perfume,  brought 

A  changeful  robe  of  emerald  moss, 
By  fairy  fingers  wrought. 

Thus  day  by  day,  and  year  by  year, 

The  little  islet  grew  ; 
Its  food,  the  flower-dust  wafted  by  ; 

Its  drink,  the  crystal  dew. 

By  night  the  lonely  stars  look'd  forth, 
Each  from  his  watch-tower  high, 

And  smiled  a  loving  blessing  down, 
Gently  and  silently. 


And  forest  birds  from  distant  isles, 

A  moment  settled  there, 
And  from  their  plumage  shook  the  seeds, 

Then  sprang  into  the  air. 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY     245 

The  islet  grew,  and  tender  plants 

Rose  up  amidst  the  dearth — 
BloonVd,  died,  and  dropt  upon  the  soil, 

Like  gifts  from  Heaven  to  earth. 

Thus  ages  passd  ;  a  hundred  trees 
Graced  that  once  barren  strand  ; 

A  hundred  ships  its  produce  bore 
To  many  a  distant  land. 

And  thus  in  every  human  heart 

A  germ  of  good  is  sown, 
Whose  strivings  upwards  to  the  light 

Are  seen  by  God  alone. 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  AND 
POEjMS 

Adams,  Sarah  Flower  page 

Nearer,  my  God  to  Thee     .        .        .11 

Arnold,  Sir  Edwin 

Extracts    from    "  The    Light    of    the 
World" 13 

Arnold,  Mathew 

Progress 17 

Self-Dependence 19 

Stagirius 21 

East  London 23 

Immortality 24 

Alexander,  C.  F. 

The  Cave  of  Machpelah      ...      25 

The  Creation 28 

Rahab 30 

Austin,  Alfred 

Is  Life  Worth  Living?  ...      33 

Banks,  Edward 

On  a  Grave,  not  of  this  Century       .       37 
A  Carol  for  Christmas  Eve         .         .       38 

247 


248  INDEX 

Benson,  Arthur  Christopher  PAGE 

Evensong 41 

One  by  One 42 

When  Punctual  Dawn         ...       43 

Binney,  Rev.  Thomas 

Eternal  Light 44 

Bonar,  Dr. 

Be  True 46 

Borthwick,  Jane 

Rest,  weary  Soul 47 

Bronte,  Anne 

In     Memory    of     a     Happy    Day    in 

February 49 

The  Narrow  Way  ....  51 

The  Penitent 53 

Bronte,  Charlotte 

Winter  Stores 34 

Bronte,  Emily 

Last  Lines 57 

Brooke,  Rev.  R.  S.,  D.D. 

Light  and  Shade 59 


INDEX  249 

Browning,  Elizabeth  Barrett  page 

Comfort 62 

Cheerfulness  taught  by  Reason.         .  62 

Discontent 63 

The  Sleep 64 

Bryant,  William  Cullen 

Thanatopsis 67 

M  Blessed  are  they  that  Mourn  "         .  70 

Buckley,  Rev.  R.  W.,  D.D. 

Twilight  Sorrow 72 

Lent 73 

Burbidge,  Thomas 

At  Divine  Disposal       ....  75 

Bushby,  Anne  S. 

Christ's  Invitation  76 

Clough,  Arthur  Hugh 

"  O  thou  of  little  Faith  "...        .  78 

Davis,  Thomas 

God  is  Love ,79 

Dobson,  Austin 

Before  Sedan 82 


250  INDEX 

Dowden,  Professor  Edward  page 

Seeking  God 84 

Communion 84 

Drennan,  Dr. 

The  Heaven  of  Heavens  cannot  con- 
tain     .......  86 

Dyson,  Charles 

O  Lamp  of  Life 87 

Eliot,  George 

The  Death  of  Moses    .  88 

Faber,  Rev.  Frederick  William 

Music 94 

Come  to  Jesus 98 

The  Right  must  Win           ...  100 

Fowler,  Ellen  Thorneycroft 

Loss  and  Gain 104 

Means  and  End 105 

A  Wish 106 

The  Breton  Fishermen's  Prayer         .  106 
Stream  and  Lake          .        .        .        .107 

No  Room 108 

Wulfruna's  Hampton   ....  109 
Sunshine  and  Shadow         .         .         .109 


INDEX  251 

Fowler,  Ellen  Thorneycroft — Con-         page 

tinucd 

In  Memoriam 110 

Purple  and  Gold 112 

M  Gold       and       Frankincense       and 
Myrrh"        .       *       .        .        .        .114 

The  Hermit 117 

Imperfections 119 

Furlong,  Thomas 

Oh  !     if    the    Atheist's    Words    were 
True 121 

Gale,  Norman 

Before  Sleep 122 

Dawn  and  Dark 123 

A  Prayer 123 

Gallienne,  Richard  le 

The  Second  Crucifixion       .        .        .125 

Grant,  Sir  Robert 

When  Gathering  Clouds      .        .        .     127 

Havergal,  Frances  Ridley 

July  on  the  Mountains        .        .        .129 

Hawker,  Robert  Stephen 

The  Child  Jesus 130 


252 


INDEX 


Hayes    Alfred 

PAGE 

My  Study 

.     131 

On  the  Mountains 

.     133 

Christmas  Carol    .... 

.    134 

The  Silent  Harp    .... 

.    135 

The  Last  Crusade 

.    136 

Extract     from     "The     Storming 

of 

Nazareth" 

137 

Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell 

The  Chambered  Nautilus    . 

.    139 

,     140 

Hunt,  Leigh 

Abou  Ben  Adhem 

.    142 

Jennings,  Rev.  John  A. 

Rest 143 

Johnson,  E.  Pauline  (Tekahionwake) 

Christmastide 144 

Brier 145 

Penseroso 145 

Keble,  Rev.  John 

The     Twenty-fourth     Sunday     after 

Trinity 147 

The  Fourth  Sundav  in  Lent       .        .149 


I 


INDEX  233 

Longfellow,  Henry  \V.  rAGE 

The  Day  is  Done 152 

The  Legend  Beautiful  ....     154 
The  Two  Angels 158 

Lowell,  J.  Russell 

Sonnet 161 

Lyte,  Henry  Francis 

Abide  with  Me 162 

He  is  Mine 163 

MacDonald,  George,  LL.D. 

A  Dream  of  the  Cross         .        .        .     166 
Three    Sonnets    from    u  Within    and 
Without" 168 

Marston,  Philip  Bourke 

To-morrow 180 

After  Love's  Passing     .        .        .        .180 

Matheson,  Rev.  George,  D.D. 

O  Love  that  wilt  not  let  me  go        .171 

M.,  B. 

Desolate 172 


254  INDEX 

Moulton,  Louise  Chandler  page 

Selfish  Prayer 183 

Newman,  John  Henry 

Lead,  Kindly  Light       ....     184 

Nicoll,  Robert 

A  Thought 185 

Noel,  Baptist  Wriothesley 

There's  not  a  Bird       ....     186 

Parker,  Gilbert 

Little  Garaine 188 

Paton,  Sir  No£l 

" Timor  Mortis  Conturbat  Me".        .     189 

Night  Thoughts 190 

A  Christmas  Carol       .        .        .        .191 

Pollock,  Rev.  T.  B. 


My  Friends  in  Paradise 

.     196 

"Saviour  most  Loving'1 

.    200 

Procter,  Adelaide  Anne 

Friend  Sorrow 

.    202 

My  God,  1  thank  Thee 

.    203 

INDEX  253 

Procter,  Adelaide  Anne — Continued  PAGE 
Per  Paceni  ad  Lucem ....  204 
Strive,  Wait,  and  Pray        .        .        .     205 

A  First  Sorrow 206 

Sowing  and  Reaping    ....     208 
The  Peace  of  God        .  .209 

If  thou  couldst  know  .        .        .        .210 


Ryder,  Rev.  H.  I.  D. 

Animae  Fidelium  . 
Dream-Loss    . 


212 
.     213 


Smith,  Horace 

Hymn  of  the  Flowers 


.     215 


Stock,  Elliot 

The  Imprisoned  Soul 
The  Soul's  Freedom 


.    218 
.    218 


Stoddard,  Richard  Henry 
Brahma's  Answer 


.     220 


Tabley,  Lord  de 

The  Saint  and  the  Sun 


.     223 


Tennyson,  Alfred,  Lord 
Immortal  Love 


.     224 


256 


INDEX 


Trench,  Richard  Chenevix  page 

The  Kingdom  of  God  ....  226 

Lord,  many  times  I  am  aweary  quite  227 

Strength  in  Prayer        ....  228 

Thankful  Love 229 


re,  Aubrey  de 

The  Agnostic's  Question 

.    230 

Is  Life  Worth  Living  ? 

.    230 

Queen  Bertha's  Matin  Song 

.    232 

The  Queen's  Vespers   . 

.    234 

The  Queen's  Vigil 

.    235 

The  Queen's  Alms 

.    237 

White,  Rev.  Joseph  Blanco 
Night  and  Death  . 


239 


Wordsworth,  William 
Latitudinarianism . 


240 


Anonymous 

The  Thinker  and  the  Doer 
The  Path  of  Faith 
The  Growth  of  Good  . 


241 
242 
243 


